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«    VIMiO«>V3iO    • 


A^A 


RECOLLECTIONS 


OP 


A  LITERAKY  LIFE; 


OR, 


BOOKS,  PLACES,  AND  PEOPLE. 


BY 

MAEY  EUSSELL  MITFOED, 

AUTHOR     OF     "our     VILLAGE,"     "bELFORD     REGIS,"     ETC. 


NEW   YORK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

No.    82    CLIFF    STREET. 
1852. 


tR 


LIBRARY 

KWIVERSn  V  '  ■:      ■  -MFORNIA 


-vjiA 


c 


?srp- 


turt{  /.  CjinrUii,  d^sq 


My  dear  Frisnd, 

But  for  you  this  "booli  would  never  have  existed.  It  has  "been 
to  me  throughout  a  source  of  great  gratification.  Aa  I  wrote  line 
after  line  of  our  fine  old  Poets,  ma.ny  a  cherished  scene  and  a  happy- 
hour  seemed  to  live  again  in  my  memory  and  my  heart.  But  no 
higher  pleasure  can  it  afford  me,  than  the  opportunity  of  express- 
ing to  you  my  sincere  respect  and  admiration  for  talent,  espe- 
cially dramatic  talent  not  even  yet  sufficiently  tno-wn,  and  for 
jnnumerahle  personal  qualities  -worth  all  the  talent  in  the  -world. 

MART    RUSSELL    MITFORD. 


SWAI.I.OWPIELD,   NEAR    READINO, 
DECEMBER,    1851. 


PREFACE. 


The  title  of  this  Book  gives  a  very  imperfect  idea  of 
the  contents.  Perhaps  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  short 
phrase  that  would  accurately  describe  a  work  so  miscella- 
neous and  so  wayward ;  a  work  where  there  is  far  too 
much  of  personal  gossip  and  of  local  scene-painting  for  the 
grave  pretension  of  critical  essays,  and  far  too  much  of 
criticism  and  extract  for  any  thing  approaching  in  the 
slightest  degree  to  autobiography. 

The  courteous  reader  must  take  it  for  what  it  is  : — an 
attempt  to  make  others  relish  a  few  favorite  writers  as 
heartily  as  I  have  relished  them  myself  My  opinions, 
such  as  they  are,  have  at  least  the  merit  of  being  honest, 
earnest,  and  individual,  unbiased  by  the  spirit  of  coterie 
or  the  influence  of  fashion.  Many  of  my  extracts  will  be 
found  to  comprise  the  best  bits  of  neglected  authors  ;  and 
some,  I  think,  as  the  noble  murder  speech  of  Daniel  Web- 
ster, the  poems  of  Thomas  Davis,  of  Mrs.  James  Gray,  of 
Mr.  Darley,  of  Mr.  Noel,  and  of  Dr.  Holmes,  will  be  new 
to  the  English  public.  Some  again,  as  the  delightful 
pleasantries  of  Praed,  and  Frere,  and  Catherine  Fanshawe 
are  difficult,  if  not  impossible  to  procure  ;  and  others  pos- 
sess in  perfection  the  sort  of  novelty  which  belongs  to  the 
forgotten.     Among   these   I   may  class  "  Hoi  croft's  Me- 


VI  I'KKFACK. 

iiUMr>,  Uichanlson's Correspondence,"  the  curious  "Trial 
of  Captnin  Gooderc,"  and  the  "  Pleader's  Guide."  I  even 
fear  that  the  choicest  morsels  of  my  book,  the  delicious 
specimens  of  Cowley's  prose,  may  come  under  the  same 
categorv.  Ah  !  I  wish  I  were  as  sure  of  ray  original  mat- 
ter as  I  am  of  my  selections. 

It  is  right  to  say  that  a  few  of  these  papers  (like  the  first 
volume  of  my  earliest  prose  work  "  Our  Village")  have 
appeared  in  an  obscure  journal. 


•  WALLOWriELD,    NEAR    READINO, 
DECEMBER,    1851. 


CONTENTS. 


I. 

VARIOUS  AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Percy's  eeliqdes 1 


II. 
IRISH  AUTHORS. 

THOMAS    DAVIS — JOHN    BANIM 15 

III. 

AUTHORS  ASSOCIATED  WITH  PLACES. 

THOMAS    NOEL .25 

OLD  AUTHORS 

ABRAHAM    COWLEY 9'^ 

V. 

COMIC  POETS. 

J.    ANSTEY 52 

VI. 

AMERICAN  POETS. 

HENRY    WAD9W0RTH    LONGFELLOW 62 


Vni  roNTKNTS. 

VM. 
AUTHORS  SPRUNG  FROif  THE  PEOPLE. 

PAOB 

Til    '".M  .     tiMl.i    HllfT   ...........        71 

VIIT. 
AUTHORS  ASSOCIATED  WITH  PLACES. 

<>ii  n.KTLlIEB 89 

IX. 
FASHIONABLE  POETS. 

WINTnROP    MACKWORTH    PRAED 100 

X. 

PEASANT  POETS. 

JOHN    CLAKE 116 

XI. 

AUTHORS  ASSOCIATED  WITH  PLACES. 
■aMUEL  JOHNSON 127 

XII. 
OLD  POETS. 

EOBEBT    HEBRICK — GEORGE    WITHERS 142 

XIII. 
FEMALE  POETS. 

JOaVNa    BAILME — CATHERINE    FANSHaWE 152 

XIV. 

MARRIED  POETS. 

Et.tlABErn    B^RRr.TT    RROWvrsr.  —  ROBTRT    BROWNTINO         ....    169 


CONTENTS.  IX 

XV. 
PROSE  PASTORALS. 

PAGB 

BiR  PHILIP  Sydney's  arcadia — isaac  Walton's  complete  angler     .  185 

XVI. 
SPANISH  BALLADS 204 

XVII. 
FEMALE  POETS. 

MISS    BLAMIRE — MRS.  JAMES    GRAY 215 

XVIII. 
AMERICAN  ORATORS. 

DANIEL    WEBSTER 228 

XIX. 

OLD  AUTHORS. 

BEN    JONSON      ............    240 

XX. 

FASHIONABLE  POETS. 

WILLIAM    ROBERT    SPENUEK 247 

XXI. 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  DRAMATIC  AUTHORS. 

COLLEY    GIBBER — RICHARD    CUMBERLAND 260 

XXII. 

FEMALE  POETS. 

MRS.    CLIVE — MRS.    ACTON    TINDAL — MISS    DAY — MRS.    ROBERT    DERING       .    274 

1* 


X  I'll  N  1  KN  IS. 

XXlll. 
CAVALIER  POETS. 

PAOK 
■  llllARD    I.OVKI.AOE — ROllER    d'ESTRANOK — THE    MARflUIS    OF    MONTROSE     287 

XXIV. 
POETRY  THAT  POETS  LOVE. 

Walter    savage    landor — leigii    hunt — percv    bysshe    shelley — 

john  keat8 304 

XXV. 
AUTHORS  ASSOCIATED  WITH  PLACES. 

CHRISTOPHER    ANSTEY 322 

XXVI. 

AMERICAN  POETS. 

JOHN    OBEENLEAF    WHITTIER— FITZ-GREENE    HALLOCK  ....    334 

XXVII. 
VOLUMINOUS  AUTtfORS. 

HaRGRAVe's   state   TRIALS 343 

XXVIII. 
FISHING  SONGS. 

MR.  OOCBLEDaY — MISS  CORBETT    ...:....  362 


XXIX. 
AUTHORS  ASSOCIATED  WITH  PLACES. 

372 


iOUS    KENYON 


XXX. 
AUTHORS  ASSOCIATED  WITH  PLACES. 

THOMA.    CHATTERTON-ROBERT  SOUTHEY-SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE- 
WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


386 


CONTENTS,  XI 

XXXI. 
AMERICAN  POETS. 

PAOB 
OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES 399 

XXXII. 
LETTERS  OF  AUTHORS. 

SAMUEL    RICHARDSON 411 

XXXIII. 

FINE  SINGLE  POEMS. 

SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 424 

XXXIV. 
AUTHORS  ASSOCIATED  WITH  PLACES. 

W.    C.    BENNETT 442 

XXXV. 
IRISH  AUTHORS. 

GERALD    GRIFFIN 457 

XXXVI. 
MOCK-HEROIC  POETRY. 

JOHN    HOOKHAM    FHERE 474 

XXXVII. 
AUTHORS  ASSOCIATED  WITH  PLACES. 

LORD  CLARENDON — GEOFFREY  CHAUCER — JOHN  HUGHES  ....  488 

XXXVIII. 

UNRECOGNIZED  POETS. 

GEORGE    DARLEY — THE    REV.    EDWAIID    WILLIAM    BARNARD  .  .    SUJ? 


\!l  to  N  IK  NTS. 

XXX IX. 

AMERICAN  PROSE  WRITERS. 

rAoa 
.VATUA.MKL    IIaWTIIOK.NK 515 

XL. 

OLD  POETS. 

>.vuRi:w  makvi-ll 532 

XLl. 
SCOTTISH  POETS. 

WILLIAM    .MOTHERWELL 540 

XLII. 

GREAT  PROSE  WRITERS. 

LORD  Bacon — Juii.v  .miltok — jerk.my  taylor — john  rcsk/n        .        .  547 


KECOLLECTIONS 


A   LITERARY  LIFE. 
I. 

VARIOUS    AUTHORS. 

Percy's  reliques. 

I  NEVER  take  up  these  three  heavily- bound  volumeB,  the  actual 
last  edition,  at  which  Dr.  Johnson  was  wont  to  scoff,  without 
feeling  a  pleasure  quite  apart  from  that  excited  by  the  charming 
book  itself;  although  to  that  book,  far  more  than  to  any  modern 
school  of  minstrelsy,  we  owe  the  revival  of  the  taste  for  romantic 
and  lyrical  poetry,  which  had  lain  dormant  since  the  days  of  the 
Commonwealth. 

This  pleasure^springs  from  a  very  simpje  cause.  The  associa- 
tion of  these  ballads  with  the  happiest  days  of  my  happy  child- 
hood. 

In  common  with  many  only  children,  especially  where  the 
mother  is  of  a  grave  and  home-loving  nature,  I  learned  to  read 
at  a  very  early  age.  Before  I  was  three  years  old  my  father 
would  perch  me  on  the  breakfast-table  to  exhibit  my  one  accom- 
plishment to  some  admiring  guest,  who  admired  all  the  more, 
because,  a  small,  puny  child,  looking  far  younger  than  I  really 
was,  nicely  dressed,  as  only  children  generally  are,  and  gifted  with 
an  affluence  of  curls,  I  might  have  passed  for  the  twin  sister  of 
my  own  great  doll.  On  the  table  was  I  perched  to  read  some 
Foxite    newspaper,    "  Courier,"    or    *'  Aforning     Chronicle,"    the 

A 


2  Ki:i'oi,i,i:cTioNs   ok 

\\  Iiig{;i»h  orarli'S  oftlu'  day,  and  as  my  dili^'ht  in  Uio  liigh-soar 
Killed  politics  of  sixty  years  npo  was  imturally  less  than  that  of 
my  honrrrs,  this  display  of  precocious  acquirement  was  commonly 
n'wanli-d.  not  by  cakes  or  supar-plums,  too  plentiful  in  my  case 
to  Ih)  ver)-  preatly  cared  for,  but  by  a  sort  of  payment  in  kind.  I 
road  loading  articles  to  please  the  company  ;  and  my  dear  mother 
recited  the  "  Children  in  the  Wood"  to  please  me.  This  was 
my  rewanl ;  and  I  looked  for  my  favorite  ballad  after  every  per- 
fonnancc,  just  as  the  piping  bullfinch  that  hung  in  the  window 
looked  for  his  lump  of  sugar  after  going  through  "  God  save  the 
King."     The  two  cases  were  exactly  parallel. 

One  day  it  happened  that  I  was  called  upon  to  exhibit,  during 
some  temjwrary  absence  of  the  dear  mamma,  and  cried  out  amain 
for  the  ditty  that  I  loved.  My  father,  who  spoilt  me,  did  not 
know  a  word  of  it,  but  he  hunted  over  all  the  shelves  till  he  had 
found  the  volumes,  that  he  might  read  it  to  me  himself;  and 
then  I  grew  unreasonable  in  my  demand,  and  coaxed,  and  kissed, 
and  begged  that  the  book  might  be  given  to  my  maid  Nancy, 
that  she  might  read  it  to  me,  whenever  I  chose.  And  (have  I 
not  said  that  my  father  spoilt  me  ?)  I  carried  my  point,  and  the 
three  volumes  were  actually  put  in  charge  of  my  pretty,  neat 
maid,  Nancy  (in  those  days  nursery-governesses  were  not),  and 
she,  waxing  weary  of  the  "  Children  in  the  Wood,"  gradually 
look  to  reading  to  me  some  of  the  other  ballads ;  and  as  from 
three  years  old  I  grew  to  four  or  five,  I  learned  to  read  them  my- 
self, and  the  book  became  the  delight  of  my  childhood,  as  it  is 
now  the  solace  of  my  age.  Ah,  well-a-day  !  sixty  years  have 
passed,  and  I  am  an  old  woman,  whose  nut-brown  hair  has  turned 
to  white  ;  but  I  never  see  that  heavily-bound  copy  of  "  Percy's 
Uchques"  without  the  home  of  my  infancy  springing  up  before 
my  eyes. 

A  pleasant  home,  in  truth,  it  was.  A  large  house  in  a  little 
town  of  the  north  of  Hampshire, — a  town,  so  small  that  but  for 
an  ancient  market,  very  slenderly  attended,  nobody  would  have 
dreamt  of  calling  it  any  thing  but  a  village.  The  breakfast-room, 
where  I  first  poBsessed  myself  of  my  beloved  ballads,  was  a  lofty 
and  spacious  apartment,  literally  lined  with  books,  which,  with 
its  Turkey  carpet,  its  plowing  fire,  its  sofas  and  its  easy  chairs, 
wcmed,  what  indeed  it  was,  a  very  nest  of  English  comfort. 
The  windows  opened  on  a  large,  old-fashioned  garden,  full  of  old- 


A    LITERARY    LIFE,  6 

fashioned  flowers — stocks,  roses,  honeysuckles,  and  pinks  ;  and 
that  again  led  into  a  grassy  orchard,  abounding  with  fruit-trees, 
a  picturesque  country  church  with  its  yews  and  lindens  on  one 
side,  and  beyond,  a  down  as  smooth  as  velvet,  dotted  with  rich 
islands  of  coppice,  hazel,  woodbine,  hawthorn,  and  holly  reaching 
up  into  the  young  oaks,  and  overhanging  flowery  patches  of  prim- 
roses, wood-sorrel,  wild  hyacinths,  and  wild  strawberries.  On 
the  side  opposite  the  church,  in  a  hollow  fringed  with  alders  and 
bulrushes,  gleamed  the  bright  clear  lakelet,  radiant  with  swans 
and  water-lilies,  which  the  simple  townsfolk  were  content  to  call 
the  Great  Pond. 

What  a  play-ground  was  that  orchard  !  and  what  playfellows 
were  mine  !  Nancy,  with  her  trim  prettiness,  my  own  dear 
father,  handsomest  and  cheerfulest  of  men,  and  the  great  New- 
foundland dog  Coe,  who  used  to  lie  down  at  my  feet,  as  if  to  in- 
vite me  to  mount  him,  and  then  to  prance  off"  with  his  burden, 
as  if  he  enjoyed  the  fun  as  much  as  we  did.  Happy,  happy 
days  I  It  is  good  to  have  the  memory  of  such  a  childhood  I  to  be 
able  to  call  up  past  delights  by  the  mere  sight  and  sound  of 
Chevy  Chase  or  the  battle  of  Otterbourne. 

And  as  time  wore  on,  the  fine  ballad  of  "  King  Estmere,"  ac- 
cording to  Bishop  Percy,  one  of  the  most  ancient  in  the  collection, 
got  to  be  among  our  prime  favorites.  Absorbed  by  the  magic  of 
the  story,  the  old  English  never  troubled  us.  I  hope  it  will  not 
trouble  my  readers.  We,  a  little  child,  and  a  young  country 
maiden,  the  daughter  of  a  respectable  Hampshire  farmer,  were 
no  bad  representatives  in  point  of  cultivation  of  the  noble  dames 
and  their  attendant  damsels  who  had  so  often  listened  with  de- 
light to  wandering  minstrels  in  bower  and  hall.  In  one  point, 
we  had  probably  the  advantage  of  them  :  we  could  read,  and  it 
is  most  likely  that  they  could  not.  For  the  rest,  every  age  has 
its  own  amusements ;  and  these  metrical  romances,  whether  said 
or  sung,  may  be  regarded  as  equivalent  in  their  day  to  the  novels 
and  operas  of  ours. 

KYNG  ESTMERE. 

Hearken  to  me,  gentlemen, 

Come,  and  you  shall  hears ; 
I'll  tell  you  of  two  of  the  boldest  brethren, 

That  ever  born  y-were. 


i;  l.^ul.I,  KCTIuNS    OF 

Tho  tono  of  tliom  wns  Adler  vonge, 

Tlie  tolher  was  King  Estmcre ; 
Tln'y  wert"  us  boKk'  mon  in  their  deedes, 

As  any  woro  fur  and  ueare. 

As  they  were  drinking  alo  and  wine, 

Witliin  Kyng  Estmerc's  hallo; 
"When  will  ye  marry  a  wyfe,  brothdr; 

A  wyfe  to  gladd  us  alle  V 

Tlien  bespake  him,  Kynge  Estmere, 

And  answered  him  hastilee : 
"  I  knowe  not  that  ladye  in  any  lande, 

That  is  able  to  marry  with  me." 

"  King  Adland  hath  a  daughter,  brother, 

Men  call  her  bright  and  sheene ; 
If  I  were  kyng  here  in  your  stead, 

That  ladye  sholde  be  queen." 

Saves,  "  Reade  me,  reade  me,  deare  brother, 

Throughout  merrle  England ; 
Where  we  might  find  a  messenger, 

Betweene  us  two  to  send  1" 

Saves,  "  You  shal  ryde  yourself,  brother, 

I'll  bear  you  conipanee ; 
Many  through  false  messengers  are  deceived. 

And  I  feare  lest  soe  sholde  we." 

Thus  they  renisht  them  to  ryde, 

Of  twoe  good  renisht  steedes, 
And  when  they  come  to  Kj-ng  Adland's  halle. 

Of  red  gold  shone  their  weedes. 

And  when  they  come  to  Kynge  Adland's  halle, 

Before  the  goodlye  yate 
There  they  found  good  Kyng  Adland, 

Rearing  himself  thereatt. 

'  Nowe  Christe  thee  save,  good  Kyng  Adland, 

Nowe  Christ  thee  save  and  see !" 
Said,  "  You  be  welcome,  Kyng  Estmere, 

Right  heartily  unto  me." 

"  You  have  a  daughter,"  said  Adler  yonge, 
"  Mf-n  f-all  her  bright  and  sheene. 

My  brother  wold  marry  her  to  his  wyfe, 
fif  V.'\n]nr,r]  tn  }ie  qneeno." 


A    LITERAKY     LIFE.  5 

"  Yesterday  was  at  my  deare  daughter, 

Syr  Brenior  the  Kyng  of  Spayne : 
And  then  she  nicked  him  of  naye, 

I  feare  she'll  do  you  the  same." 

"  The  Kyng  of  Spayn  is  a  foule  paynim, 

And  'lieveth  on  Mahound ; 
And  pitye  it  were  that  fayre  ladye, 

Shold  marry  a  heathen  hound." 

"  But  grant  to  me,"  sayes  Kyng  Estmure, 

"  For  my  love  I  you  praye, 
That  I  may  see  your  daughter  deare, 

Before  I  goe  hence  awaye." 

"  Although  itt  is  seven  yeare  and  more 

Syth  my  daughter  was  in  halle, 
She  shall  come  dawne  once  for  your  sake, 

To  glad  my  guestes  all." 

Down  then  came  that  mayden  fayre, 

With  ladyes  laced  in  pall, 
And  half  a  hundred  of  bolde  knightes. 

To  bring  her  from  bovvre  to  halle ; 
And  eke  as  many  gentle  squieres. 

To  waite  upon  them  all. 

[Scott  has  almost  literally  copied  the  four  last  lines  of  this 
stanza  in  the  first  canto  of  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel." 
One  of  the  many  obligations  that  we  owe  to  these  old  unknown 
poets,  is  the  inspiration  that  Sir  Walter  drew  from  them,  an  in- 
spiration to  be  traced  almost  as  frequently  in  his  prose,  as  in  his 
verse.] 

The  talents  of  golde  were  on  her  head  sette 

Hunge  lowe  down  to  her  knee ; 
And  every  rynge  on  her  smalle  finger 

Shone  of  the  chrystall  free. 

Sayes,  "  Christ  you  save,  my  deare  madame  ;" 

Sayes,  "  Christ  you  save  and  sec !" 
Sayes,  "Yoil  be  welcome,  Kyng  Estmero, 

Right  welcome  unto  me. 

"  And  iff  you  love  mo  as  you  saye, 

So  well  and  hcartilee  ; 
All  that  ever  you  are  comcn  about, 

Soone  sped  now  itt  may  bee." 


K  hL  n  I.  I.KC'TIONS     OK 

Then  hoxpako  lior  fnthi-r  dcaic : 

"My  iliuifrlitor,  I  sny  iioyi'; 
Rcnu-mbor  wi-11  tlio  Kyng  of  Spayn, 

What  he  sayd  ycsterdaye. 

"  He  woldc  pull  down  my  halles  and  casiK's, 

And  reove  im*  of  my  lyfe ; 
And  ever  I  fi-are  tliat  paynim  kyng, 

If  I  reeve  bim  of  bis  wyfe." 

"  Your  castles  and  your  towres,  father, 

Are  stronglye  built  aboute  ; 
And  therefore  of  that  foul  paynim, 

Weo  neede  not  stando  iu  doubte. 

"  Plyghte  mc  your  troth  nowe,  Kyng  Estmero, 
By  Heaven  and  your  righte  hande, 

That  you  will  marrye  me  to  your  wyfe, 
And  make  me  queen  of  your  lande." 

Then  Kj-ng  Estmere,  he  plight  his  troth, 

By  Heaven  and  his  right  hand, 
That  he  would  marrye  her  to  his  wyfo, 

And  make  her  queen  of  his  lande. 

And  he  tooke  leave  of  that  ladye  fayre, 

To  go  to  his  own  contree ; 
To  fetch  him  dukes,  and  lordes,  and  knightes, 

That  marryed  they  might  be. 

They  had  not  ridden  scant  a  myle, 

A  myle  forthc  of  the  towTie, 
But  in  did  come  the  Kyng  of  Spayne, 

With  kempes  many  a  one. 

But  in  did  come  the  Kyng  of  Spayne, 

With  many  a  grimm  barone 
Tone  day  to  marrye  Kyng  Adland's  daughter, 

Tother  day  to  carrye  her  home. 

Then  she  sent  after  Kyng  Estmere, 

In  all  the  spede  might  bee. 
That  he  must  either  returne  and  fighte. 

Or  goe  home  and  lose  his  ladye. 

One  whyle  then  the  page  he  went. 

Another  whyle  he  ranne ; 
Till  he  had  o'ertaken  K3mg  Estmere, 

I  wis  he  never  blanne. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE. 

'•  Tydinges '  tydinges  !  Kyng  Estmere !" 
"  What  tydiuges  nowe,  my  boye  1" 

"  Oh,  tydiuges  I  can  tell  to  you, 
That  will  you  sore  annoye. 

'•  You  had  not  ridden  scant  a  mylo,  ^ 

A  myle  out  of  the  towne, 
But  in  did  come  the  Kyng  of  Spayue, 

With  kempes  many  a  one. 

"  But  in  did  come  the  Kyng  of  Spayue, 

With  many  a  bold  barone 
Tone  day  to  marrye  Kyng  Adland's  daughter, 

Tother  day  to  carry  her  home. 

"  That  ladye  faire  she  greetos  you  well, 

And  evermore  well,  by  me : 
You  must  either  turne  again  and  fighte, 

Or  goe  home  and  lose  your  ladye." 

Sayes,  "  Reade  me,  reade  me,  deare  brother, 

My  reade  shall  ryde  at  thee. 
Which  waye  we  best  may  turne  and  fighte, 

To  save  this  fayre  ladye"?" 

"  Now  hearken  to  me,"  sayes  Adler  yonge, 
"  And  your  reade  must  rise  at  me, 

I  quicklye  will  devise  a  waye, 
To  sette  thy  ladye  free. 

"  My  mother  was  a  western  woman, 

And  learned  in  gramarye, 
And  when  I  learned  at  the  schole, 

Something  she  taught  itt  me. 

"  There  groweth  an  hearbe  within  this  fioldc, 

And  iff  it  were  but  known, 
His  color  which  is  whyte  and  redde. 

It  Avill  make  blacke  and  browne. 

"  His  color  which  is  browne  and  blacke. 

It  will  make  redde  and  whyte; 
That  sworde  is  not  all  Englande, 

Upon  his  coate  will  byte. 

"  And  you  shall  be  a  harper,  brother, 

Out  of  the  north  countree  ; 
And  I'll  be  your  boye  so  faine  of  (iglUc, 

To  boarc  your  liarpe  by  your  knee. 


K  K  C  O  L  L  K  C  r  I  O  N  S    OF 

'  And  you  slmll  In-  the  best  harper, 

That  over  took  Imrp  in  hand, 
Ami  I  will  bo  the  best  singer, 

That  ever  songe  in  the  land. 

'•  It  shal  be  written  in  our  forheads, 

All  and  in  graniarye. 
That  wo  twoe  are  tlie  boldest  men, 

That  are  in  all  Christentye." 

And  thus  they  renisht  them  to  ryde, 

On  twoe  good  renisht  steedes, 
And  when  they  came  to  Kyng  Adland's  halle, 

Of  redd  gold  shone  their  weedes. 

And  when  they  came  to  Kyng  Adland's  halle, 

Untill  the  fayre  hall  yate, 
There  they  found  a  proud  porter, 

Rearing  himselfe  thereatt. 

Sayes,  "Christ  thee  save,  thou  proud  porter," 
Sayes,  "  Christ  thee  save  and  see." 

"  Now  you  be  welcome,"  sayd  the  port6r, 
"  Of  what  land  soever  ye  be." 

"  We  been  harpers,"  sayd  Adler  yonge, 
"  Come  out  of  the  north  countree ; 

We  been  come  hither  untill  this  place, 
This  proud  wedding  for  to  see." 

Sayd,  "  An  your  color  were  whyte  and  redd, 

As  it  is  blacke  and  browne, 
I'd  say  Kyng  Estmere  and  his  brother, 

Were  comen  until  this  towne." 

Then  they  pulled  out  a  ryng  of  gold, 

Layd  it  on  the  porter's  arme, 
"  And  ever  we  will  thee  proud  porter, 

Thou  wilt  say  us  no  harme." 

Sore  he  looked  on  Kj-ng  Estmere, 

And  Bore  he  handled  the  ryng. 
Then  opened  to  them  the  fayre  hall  yates. 

He  lett  for  no  kind  of  thyng. 

Kyng  Estmere  he  light  off  his  steede, 

Up  at  the  fayre  hall  board; 
The  frothe  that  came  from  his  bridle  bitto, 

Light  on  Kyng  Brcmor's  beard. 


A    LITERAKY     LIFE. 

Sayes,  "  Stable  thy  steede,  thou  proud  harper, 

Goe  stable  him  in  the  stalle ; 
It  doth  not  become  a  proud  harper, 

To  stable  him  in  a  kyng's  halle." 

'•  My  ladde  he  is  so  lither,"  he  sayd, 

'•  He  will  do  nought  that's  meete, 
And  aye  that  I  could  but  find  the  man, 

Were  able  him  to  beate." 

"  Thou  speakest  proud  wordes,"  sayd  the  paynim  king, 

"  Thou  harper,  here  to  me ; 
There  is  a  man.  within  this  halle, 

That  will  beate  thy  ladd  and  thee." 

"  0  lett  that  man  come  down,"  he  sayd, 

"  A  sight  of  him  vvolde  I  see, 
And  when  he  hath  beaten  well  my  ladd. 

Then  he  shall  beate  of  mee." 

Downe  then  came  the  kemperye  man, 

And  looked  him  in  the  eare, 
For  all  the  golde  that  was  under  heaven, 

He  durst  not  neigh  him  neare. 

"  And  how  nowe,  kempe,"  saj-d  the  Kyng  of  Spayn, 

"  And  now  what  aileth  thee  1" 
He  sayes,  "It  is  written  in  his  forehead, 

All,  and  in  gramarye. 
That  for  alle  the  golde  that  is  under  heaven, 

I  dare  not  neigh  him  nye." 

Kyng  Estmere  then  pulled  forth  his  harpe, 

And  played  thereon  so  sweete, 
Upstarte  the  ladye  from  the  kyng. 

As  he  sate  att  the  meate. 

"  Now  stay  thy  harpe,  thou  proud  hari)er, 

Now  staye  thy  harpe  I  saye; 
For  an  thou  playest  as  thou  beginnest, 

Thou'lt  till  my  bride  awaye." 

He  struck  upon  his  harpe  agayne, 

And  playde  both  fair  and  free ; 
The  ladye  was  so  pleas(;d  thereatt, 

She  laughed  loud  laughters  three. 


10  KKCOLLKCTIONS    VF 

Now  .si'll  1110  thy  li!iri)0,"  said  tlio  Kyng  of  Spayn, 
■•  Thy  hiir]>o  ami  stryngs  oche  ono, 
And  as  nmiiy  gold  nobles  thou  shalt  have, 
As  there  bo  stryngs  thereon." 

"  And  what  woldc  yc  doe  with  my  harpe  1"  ho  sayd, 

"If  1  did  sell  it  yeer' 
'  To  playo  my  wyfe  and  I  a  fitt, 

When  we  together  be." 

'•  Nowe  sell  me,  Sir  KjTig,  thy  bryde  soo  gay, 

As  she  sits  laced  in  pall, 
And  as  many  gold  nobles  I  will  give, 

As  there  be  ryngs  in  the  hall." 

"  And  what  wolde  yc  doe  with  my  bryde  soe  gay, 

Iff  I  did  sell  her'  yee  V— 
"  More  seemly  it  is  for  that  fair  ladye 

To  wed  with  me  than  thee." 

He  played  agayne  both  loud  and  shrille, 

And  Adler  he  did  syng; 
'•  0  ladye,  this  is  thy  owne  true  love. 

No  harper,  but  a  kyng. 

"  0  ladye,  this  is  thy  owne  true  love. 

As  plajTilye  thou  mayst  see ; 
And  I'll  rid  thee  of  that  foul  payniui. 

Who  parts  thy  love  and  thee." 

The  ladye  lookt  and  the  ladye  blusht, 

And  blusht  and  lookt  agayne, 
While  Adler  he  hath  drawn  his  brande, 

And  hath  Sir  Bremor  slayne. 

Up  then  rose  the  kemperye  men, 

And  loud  they  gan  to  crye : 
"Ah,  traytors!  yee  have  slayne  our  kyng, 

And  therefore  ye  shall  dye." 

Kj-ng  Estmere  threwe  the  harpe  asyde, 

And  swith  he  drew  his  brand ; 
And  Estmere  he,  and  Adler  yonge, 

Right  stiff'  in  etour  can  stand. 

And  aye  their  swordes  soe  sore  can  byte, 

Through  help  of  gramarye. 
That  soon  they  have  slayjie  the  kempers-e  men, 

Or  forst  them  forth  to  flee. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  ll 

Kyng  Estmere  took  that  fayre  ladye, 

And  married  her  to  his  wyfe, 
And  brought  her  home  to  merry  England, 

With  her  to  leade  his  lyfe, 

I  must  not,  however,  attempt  to  quote  more  of  those  fine  old 
ballads  here  ;  the  feuds  of  the  Percy  and  the  Douglas  would  take 
up  too  much  space  ;  so  would  the  loves  of  King  Arthur's  court, 
and  the  adventures  of  Robin  Hood.  Even  the  story  of  the  Heir 
of  Lynne  must  remain  untold  ;  and  I  must  content  myself  with 
two  of  the  shortest  and  least  hackneyed  poems  in  a  book  that  for 
great  and  varied  interest  can  hardly  be  surpassed.  The  "Lie," 
is  said  to  have  been  written  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  the  night 
before  his  execution.  That  it  was  written  at  that  exact  time  is 
pretty  well  disproved  by  the  date  of  its  publication  in  "  Davison's 
Poems,"  before  Sir  Walter's  death  ;  it  is  even  uncertain  that 
Raleigh  was  the  author  ;  but  that  it  is  of  that  age  is  beyond  all 
doubt ;  so  is  its  extraordinary  beauty — a  beauty  quite  free  from 
the  conceits  which  deform  too  many  of  our  finest  old  lyrics. 

Go,  Soul,  the  body's  guest, 
Upon  a  thankless  errand  ; 
Fear  not  to  touch  the  best, 
The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant. 
Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 
And  give  the  world  the  lie. 

Go  tell  the  Court  it  glows 

And  shines  like  rotten  wood; 
Go  tell  the  Church  it  shows 
Men's  good,  and  doth  no  good: 
If  Church  and  Court  reply. 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates  they  live 

Acting  by  others'  actions, 
Not  loved  unless  they  give. 
Not  strong  but  by  their  factions: 
If  potentates  reply, 
Give  potentates  the  lie. 

TeU  men  of  high  condition 
That  rule  affairs  of  state, 
Their  pui-pose  is  ambition, 
Their  practice  only  hate  : 
And  if  they  once  rei)ly, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 


12  KtCUl-LKCTiO.Nd     OF 

Toll  Ihcm  tljat  brave  it  most 

Thoy  lii'g  for  more  by  si)cnding, 
Who  ill  tlii'ir  greatest  cost 

tjfok  nothing  but  commending  : 
And  if  tiii-y  make  reply, 
yparc  not  to  give  the  lie. 

Toil  zonl  it  lacks  devotion ; 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust ; 
Tell  time  it  is  but  motion ; 
Toll  tlesh  it  is  but  dust : 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth ; 

Tell  honor  how  it  alters . 
Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth ; 
Tell  favor  how  she  falters  ; 
And  as  they  shall  reply, 
Give  each  of  them  the  lie. 

Tell  wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  fickle  points  of  niceness  ; 
Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness : 
And  if  they  do  reply. 
Straight  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness ; 
Tell  skill  it  is  pretension; 
Tell  charity  of  coldness  ; 
Tell  law  it  is  contention. 
And  as  they  yield  reply, 
So  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness ; 

Tell  nature  of  decay  ; 
Tell  friendship  of  unkindness ; 
Tell  justice  of  delaj' : 
And  if  they  dare  reply. 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  arts  they  have  no  soundness, 

But  vary  by  esteeming ; 
Tell  schools  they  want  profoundness. 
And  stand  too  much  on  seeming : 
If  arts  and  schools  reply, 
Give  arts  and  schools  the  lie. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  13 

Teil  faith  it's  fled  the  city; 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth  ; 
Tell,  manhood  shakes  off  pity ; 
Tell,  virtue  least  preferreth : 
And  if  they  do  reply. 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing, 
Although  to  give  the  lie 
Deserve  no  less  than  stabbing, 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will, 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 


WINIFREDA. 

About  the  authorship  of  this  beautiful  address  to  conjugal  love, 
there  is  also  much  uncertainty.  Bishop  Percy  calls  it  a  "  Transla- 
tion frona  the  Antient  British,"  probably  to  vail  the  real  writer. 
We  find  it  included  among  Gilbert  Cooper's  poems,  a  diamond 
among  pebbles  ;  he  never  could  have  written  it.  It  has  been 
claimed  for  Stevens,  who  did  the  world  good  service  as  one  of 
the  earliest  restorers  of  Shakspeare's  text ;  but  who  is  almost  as 
famous  for  his  bitter  and  cynical  temper,  as  for  his  acuteness  as  a 
verbal  critic.  Could  this  charming  love-song,  true  in  its  tender- 
ness as  the  gushing  notes  of  a  bird  to  his  sitting  mate,  have  been 
poured  forth  by  a  man  whom  the  v/hole  world  agreed  in  hating  ? 
After  all,  we  have  no  need  to  meddle  with  this  vexed  question. 
Let  us  be  content  to  accept  thankfully  one  of  the  very  few  purely 
English  ballads  which  contradict  the  reproach  of  our  Scottish  and 
Irish  neighbors,  when  they  tell  us  that  our  love-songs  are  of  the 
head,  not  of  the  heart.  This  poem,  at  least,  may  vie  with  those 
of  Gerald  Griffin  in  the  high  and  rare  merit  of  conveying  the 
noblest  sentiments  in  the  simplest  language. 

Away !  let  naught  to  love  displeasing, 

My  Winifreda,  move  your  care; 
Let  naught  delay  the  heavenly  blessing. 

Nor  squeamish  pride,  nor  gloomy  fear. 

What  though  no  grant  of  royal  donors 

With  pompous  titles  grace  our  blood  1 
We'll  shine  in  more  substantial  honors, 

And  to  be  noble  we'll  be  good. 


14  KKCOLLECTIONS    OV 

Our  name,  wliilo  virtue  thus  wo  tender, 
Shall  sweetly  sound  where'er  'tis  spoke ; 

And  all  the  great  ones,  they  shall  wonder 
How  they  respect  such  little  folk. 

What  though  from  fortune's  lavish  bounty 

No  mighty  treasures  wc  possess  1 
We'll  fmd  within  our  pittance  plenty, 

And  be  content  without  excess. 

Still  shall  each  kind  returning  season 

Sufficient  for  our  wishes  give; 
For  we  will  live  a  life  of  reason, 

And  that's  the  only  life  to  live. 

Through  youth  to  age  in  love  excelling. 

We'll  hand  in  hand  together  tread; 
Sweet-smiling  Peace  shall  crown  our  dwelling, 

And  babes,  sweet-smiling  babes,  our  bed. 

How  should  I  love  the  pretty  creatures. 
While  round  my  knees  they  fondly  clung; 

To  see  them  look  their  mother's  features. 
To  hear  them  lisp  their  mother's  tongue. 

And  when  with  env'y,  time  transported, 

Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  our  joj's, 
You'll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted, 

And  I'll  go  wooing  in  my  boys. 

Surely  this  is  the  sort  of  poetry  that  ought  to  be  popular — to  be 
sung  in  our  concert-rooms,  and  set  to  such  airs  as  should  be  played 
on  barrel-organs  through  our  streets,  suggesting  the  words  and  the 
sentiments  as  soon  as  the  first  notes  of  the  melody  make  therii- 
selves  heard  under  the  window. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  15 


11. 

IRISH    AUTHORS. 

THOMAS    DAVIS JOHN    BANIM. 

Considering  his  immense  reputation  in  the  Sister  Island,  the 
name  of  Thomas  Davis  has  hardly  found  its  due  place  in  our 
literature.  He  was  an  Irish  barrister ;  the  most  earnest,  the 
most  vehement,  the  most  gifted,  and  the  most  beloved  of  the 
Young  Ireland  party!  Until  the  spring  of  1840,  when,  he  was  in 
his  twenty-sixth  year,  he  had  only  been  remarkable  for  extreme 
good-nature,  untiring  industry,  and  very  varied  learning.  At  that 
period  he  blazed  forth  at  once  as  a  powerful  and  brilliant  political 
writer,  produced  an  eloquent  and  admirable  "  Life  of  Curran," 
became  one  of  the  founders  of  the  "  Nation"  newspaper,  and 
carried  his  zeal  in  the  cause  of  nationality  to  such  excess,  that  he 
actually  proposed  to  publish  a  weekly  journal  in  the  Irish  tongue 
— an  impracticable  scheme  which  happily  ended  in  talk. 

To  the  newspaper  which  was  established,  and  which  the 
young  patriots  condescended  to  write  in  the  language — to  use 
their  own  phrase — of  the  Saxons,  we  owe  the  beautiful  lyrics  of 
Thomas  Davis.  The  editor  of  the  "  Nation"  had  faith  in  the 
well-known  saying  of  Fletcher  of  Saltown,  "  Give  me  the  writing 
of  the  ballads,  and  let  who  will  make  the  laws  ;"  and  in  default 
of  other  aid,  the  regular  contributors  to  the  new  journal  resolved 
to  attempt  the  task  themselves.  It  is  difficult  to  believe,  but  the 
editor  of  his  poems  dwells  upon  it  as  a  well-known  fact,  that  up 
to  this  time  the  author  of  "  The  Sack  of  Baltimore"  had  never 
written  a  line  of  verse  in  his  life,  and  was,  indeed,  far  less  san- 
guine than  his  coadjutors  in  the  success  of  the  experiment.  How 
completely  he  succeeded  there  is  no  need  to  tell,  although  nearly 
all  that  he  has  written  was  the  work  of  one  hurried  year,  thrown 
off  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand  occupations,  and  a  thousand  claim.s. 


16  U EC OL SECTIONS    OF 

A  very  Tew  years  more,  and  his  brief  and  briglit  career  was  cut 
short  by  a  sudden  illness,  which  carried  him  rapidly  to  the  grave, 
bcJoved  and  lamented  by  his  countrymen  of  every  sect  and  of 
every  party  : 

'•  His  mourners  wore  two  hosts,  his  friends  and  foes: 

...  He  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him  wept." 

Oh  !  that  he  had  lived  to  love  Ireland,  not  better,  but  mort 
wisely,  and  to  write  volumes  upon  volumes  of  such  lyrics  as  the 
two  first  which  I  transcribe,  such  biographies  as  his  "  Life  of 
Curran,"  and  such  criticism  as  his  "  Essay  upon  Irish  Song  !'' 

I  will  deal  more  tenderly  than  he  would  have  done  with  printei 
and  reader,  by  giving  them  as  little  as  I  can  of  his  beloved  Cym- 
ric words  (such  is  the  young  Irish  name  for  the  old  Irish  lan- 
guage) ;  and  by  sparing  them  altogether  his  beloved  Cymric 
character,  Avhich  I  have  before  my  eyes  at  this  moment,  looking 
exactly  like  a  cross  between  Arabic  and  Chinese. 

THE  SACK  OF  BALTIMORE. 

Baltimore  is  a  small  seaport,  in  the  barony  of  Carberry,  in 
South  Munster.  It  grew  up  round  a  castle  of  O'Driscoll's,  and 
was,  after  his  ruin,  colonized  by  the  English.  On  the  20th  of 
June,  1631,  the  crew  of  two  Algerine  galleys  landed  in  the 
dead  of  the  night,  sacked  the  town,  and  bore  off  into  slavery  all 
who  were  not  too  old  or  too  young,  or  too  fierce,  for  their  pur- 
pose. The  pirates  were  steered  up  the  intricate  channel  by  one 
Hackett,  a  Dungarvon  fisherman,  whom  they  had  taken  at  sea 
for  that  office.  Two  years  after  he  was  convicted  and  executed 
for  the  crime. 


The  summer  sun  is  falling  soft  on  Carberry's  hundred  isles ; 

The  summer  sun  is  gleaming  still  through  Gabriel's  rough  defiles ; 

Old  Inisherkin's  crumbled  fane  looks  like  a  molting  bird  ; 

And  in  a  calm  and  sleepy  swell  the  ocean-tide  is  heard  ; 

The  hookers  lie  upon  the  beach  ;  the  children  cease  their  play  ; 

The  gossips  leave  the  little  inn ;  the  households  kneel  to  pray  ; 

And  full  of  love  and  peace  and  rest,  its  daily  labor  o'er. 

Upon  that  cosy  creek  there  lay  the  town  of  Baltimore. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  17 

A  deeper  rest,  a  starry  trance,  has  come  with  midnight  there, 
No  sound,  except  that  throbbing  wave,  in  earth  or  sea  or  air ; 
The  massive  capes  and  ruined  towers  seem  conscious  of  the  calm  ; 
The  fibrous  sod  and  stunted  trees  are  breathing  heavy  balm. 
So  still  the  night,  those  two  long  barques  round  Dunashad  that  glide, 
Must  trust  their  oars,  methinks  not  few,  against  the  ebbing  tide  ; 
Oh  !  some  sweet  mission  of  true  love  must  urge  them  to  the  shore, 
They  bring  some  lover  to  his  bride,  who  sighs  in  Baltimore. 

All,  all  asleep  within  each  roof  along  that  rocky  street, 

And  these  must  be  the  lover's  friends,  with  gently  gliding  feet ; — 

A  stifled  gasp  !  a  dreamy  noise  ! — "  The  roof  is  in  a  flame  !" 

From  out  their  beds  and  to  their  doors  rush  maid  and  sire  and  dame, 

And  meet  upon  the  threshold  stone,  the  gleaming  saber's  fall. 

And  o'er  each  black  and  bearded  face  the  white  or  crimson  shawl, 

The  yell  of"  Allah  !"  breaks  above  the  prayer  and  shriek  and  roar — 

Oh,  blessed  God  !  the  Algerine  is  lord  of  Baltimore  ! 

Then  flung  the  youth  his  naked  hand  against  the  shearing  sword  ; 
Then  sprang  the  mother  on  the  brand  with  which  her  son  was  gored  ; 
Then  sank  the  grandsire  on  the  floor,  his  grand-babes  clutching  wild ; 
Then  fled  the  maiden,  moaning  faint,  and  nestled  with  the  child. 
But  see  yon  pirate  strangled  lies  and  crushed  with  splashing  heel, 
While  o'er  him,  in  an  Irish  hand,  there  sweeps  his  Syrian  steel. 
Though  virtue  sink,  and  courage  fail,  and  misers  yield  their  store, 
There's  one  heart  well  avenged  in  the  sack  of  Baltimore  ! 

Midsummer  morn,  in  woodland  nigh,  the  birds  begin  to  sing. 
They  see  not  now  the  milking-maids,  deserted  is  the  spring  ! 
Midsummer  day,  this  gallant  rides  from  distant  Bandon's  town, 
Those  hookers  crossed  from  stormy  Skull,  the  skiff"  from  Affadown, 
They  only  found  the  smoking  walls  with  neighbors'  blood  besprent, 
And  on  the  strewed  and  trampled  beach  awhile  they  wildly  went, 
Then  dashed  to  sea,  and  passed  Cape  Clear,  and  saw  five  leagues  before, 
The  pirate  galleys  vanishing  that  ravaged  Baltimore. 

Oh  !  some  must  tug  the  galley's  oar,  and  some  must  tend  the  steed. 
This  boy  will  bear  a  Scheik's  chibouk,  and  that  a  Bey's  jerreed. 
Oh  !  some  are  for  the  arsenals  by  beauteous  Dardanelles, 
And  some  are  in  the  caravan  to  Mecca's  sandy  dells. 
The  maid  that  Bandon  gallant  sought  is  chosen  for  the  Dey  ; 
She's  safe  !  she's  dead  !  she  stabbed  him  in  the  midst  of  his  serai ! 
And,  when  to  die  a  death  of  fire,  that  noble  maid  they  bore, 
She  only  smiled — O'Driscoll's  child  ! — she  thought  of  Baltimore  ! 

'Tis  two  long  years  since  sank  the  town  beneath  that  bloody  band, 
And  all  around  its  trampled  hearths  a  larger  concourse  stand. 
Where,  high  upon  a  gallows  tree,  a  yelling  wretch  is  seen, 
'Tis  Ilackctt  of  Dungarvon,  he  who  steered  the  Algcrino, 


18  KKl'O  LL  KCTIONS     OK 

Ho  foil  ninia  a  suiii-ii  shout,  witli  scarce  a  passing  prayer, 

For  ho  Imd  sltiiii  the  kith  and  kin  of  many  a  hundred  tlicrc. 

8omo  nuittorcd  of  MacMurchadh,  who  had  brought  the  Norman  o'er  ; 

Some  cursed  him  witii  Iscarlot,  that  day  in  Baltimore. 

The  moio  we  study  this  ballad,  the  more  extraordinary  docs  it 
appear,  that  it  should  have  been  the  work  of  an  unpracticed 
hand.  Not  only  is  it  lull  of  spirit  and  of  melody,  qualities  not 
incompatible  with  inexperience  in  poetical  composition,  but  the  ar- 
tistic merit  is  so  great.  Picture  succeeds  to  .picture,  each  perfect 
in  itself,  and  each  conducing  to  the  efiect  of  the  whole.  There 
is  not  a  careless  line,  or  a  word  out  of  place  ;  and  how  the  epi- 
thets paint ;  "  fibrous  sod,"  "  heavy  balm,"  "  shearing  sword  I" 
The  Oriental  portion  is  as  complete  in  what  the  French  call  local 
color  as  the  Irish.  He  was  learned,  was  Thomas  Davis,  and 
wrote  of  nothing  that  he  could  not  have  taught.  It  is  something 
that  he  should  have  left  a  poem  like  this,  altogether  untinged  by 
party  politics,  for  the  pride  and  admiration  of  all  who  share  a 
common  language,  whether  Celt  or  Saxon. 

MAIRE  BHAN  ASTOIR*— "  FAIR  MARY  MY  TREASURE." 

IRISH  EMIGRANT  SONG. 

In  a  valley  far  away. 

With  my  Maire  bhan  astoir. 
Short  would  be  the  summer  day, 

Ever  loving  more  and  more. 
Winter  days  would  all  grow  long 

With  the  light  her  heart  would  pour, 
With  her  kisses  and  her  song 
And  her  loving  maith  go  leor.f 
Fond  is  Maire  bhan  astoir. 
Fair  is  Maire  bhan  astoir, 
Sweet  as  ripple  on  the  shore 
Sings  my  Maire  bhan  astoir. 

Oh  !  her  sire  is  very  proud, 

And  her  mother  cold  as  stone ; 
But  her  brother  bi'avely  vowed 

She  should  be  my  bride  alone  ; 


♦  Pronounced  Maur-ya  Vaun  Asthore. 
t  Much  plenty,  or  in  abundance. 


A     LITERARY     LIFE.  19 

For  he  knew  I  loved  her  well, 

And  he  knew  she  loved  me  too, 
So  he  sought  their  pride  to  quell, 
But  'twas  all  in  vain  to  sue. 
True  is  Maire  bhan  astoir. 
Tried  is  Maire  bhan  astoir, 
Had  I  wings  I'd  never  soar 
From  my  Maire  bhan  astoir. 

There  are  lands  where  manly  toil 

Surely  reaps  the  crop  it  sows, 
Glorious  woods  and  teeming  soil 

Where  the  broad  Missouri  iiows  ; 
Through  the  trees  the  smoke  shall  rise 
From  our  hearth  with  maith  go  leor, 
There  shall  shine  the  happy  eyes 
Of  my  Maire  bhan  astoir. 
Mild  is  Maire  bhan  astoir, 
Mine  is  Maire  bhan  astoir, 
Saints  will  watch  about  the  door 
Of  my  Maire  bhan  astoir. 

I  subjoin  one  of  thelyrics,  a  ballad  of. the  '-Brigade,"  which 
produced  so  much  effect,  when  printed  on  the  broad  sheet  of  the 
"  Nation."  It  is  a  graphic  and  dramatic  battle-song,  full  of  life 
and  action  ;  too  well  calculated  to  excite  that  most  excitable 
people,  for  whose  gratification  it  was  written. 

FONTENOY. 

(1745.) 

Thrice,  at  the  huts  of  Fontenoy,  the  English  column  failed ; 
And  twice,  the  lines  of  Saint  Antoine,  the  Dutch  in  vain  assailed  j 
For  town  and  slope  were  filled  with  fort  and  flanking  battery, 
And  well  they  swept  the  English  ranks  and  Dutch  auxiliary. 
As  vainly  through  De  Barri's  wood  the  British  soldiers  burst, 
The  French  artillery  drove  them  back,  diminished  and  dispersed. 
The  bloody  Duke  of  Cumberland  beheld  with  anxious  eye, 
And  ordered  up  his  last  reserve,  his  latest  chance  to  try. 
On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  how  fast  his  generals  ride  ! 
And  mustering  come  his  chosen  troops  like  clouds  at  eventide. 

Six  thousand  English  veterans  in  stately  column  tread, 
Their  cannon  blaze  in  front  and  flank,  Lord  Hay  is  at  their  head. 
Steady  they  step  adown  the  slope,  steady  they  mount  the  hill. 
Steady  they  load,  steady  they  fire,  moving  right  onward  still. 
Betwixt  the  wood  and  Fontenoy,  as  through  a  furnace  blast, 
Through  rampart,  trench  and  palisade,  and  bullets  showering  fust; 


20  KKCOLLKCTlOANd    OF 

Ami  on  the  open  plain  above  they  rose  and  kept  their  course, 
With  rvaily  tiro,  ami  grim  risolvo,  tliat  moclicd  at  liDstile  force; 
Past  Fontonoy,  past  Fontonoy,  while  thinner  grow  their  ranks, 
They  break  aa  breaks  the  Zuyder  Zee  through  Holland's  ocean  banks  ! 

More  idly  than  the  summer  flies,  French  tirailleurs  rush  round ; 

As  stubble  to  the  lava  tide,  French  squadrons  strew  the  ground  ; 

Bomb-shell  and  grajie  and  round-shot  tore,  still  on  they  marched  and  fired  ; 

Fast,  from  each  volley,  grenadier  and  voltigeur  retired. 

'•Push  on,  my  household  cavalry  !'  King  Louis  madly  cried; 

To  death  they  rush,  but  rude  their  shock,  not  unavenged  they  died. 

On,  through  the  camp  the  column  trod,  King  Louis  turned  his  rein  : 

"  Not  yet,  my  liege,"  Saxe  interposed,  "  the  Irish  troops  remain." 

And  Foutenoy,  famed  Fontonoy,  had  been  a  Waterloo 

Had  not  these  exiles  ready  been,  fresh,  vehement  and  true. 

" Lord  Clare,"  he  says,  "you  have  your  wish,  there  are  your  Saxon  foes!" 

The  Marshal  almost  smiles  to  see  how  furiously  he  goes  ! 

How  fierce  the  look  these  exiles  wear,  who're  wont  to  be  so  gay! 

The  treasured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  are  in  their  hearts  to-day ; 

The  treaty  broken  ere  the  ink  wherewith  'twas  writ  could  dry ; 

Their  plundered  homes,  their  ruined  shrines,  their  women's  parting  cry ; 

Their  priesthood  hunted  down  like  wolves,  their  country  overthrown ; 

Each  looks  as  if  revenge  for  all  were  staked  on  him  alone. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  nor  ever  yet  elsewhere, 

Rushed  on  to  fight  a  nobler  band  than  these  proud  exiles  were. 

O'Brien's  voice  is  hoarse  with  joy,  as,  halting,  he  commands, 

"  Fi.x  bayonets — charge  !"  Like  mountain  storm  rush  on  these  fiery  bands  I— 

Thin  is  the  English  column  now,  and  faint  their  volleys  grow, 

Yet,  mustering  all  the  strength  they  have,  they  make  a  gallant  show. 

They  dress  their  ranks  upon  the  hill,  to  face  that  battle-wind  ; 

Their  bayonets  the  breakers'  foam ;  like  rocks  the  men  behind  ! 

One  volley  crashes  from  their  line,  w-hen  through  the  surging  smoke, 

With  empty  guns  clutched  in  their  hands,  the  headlong  Irish  broke. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  hark  to  that  fierce  huzza ! 

'■  Revenge  1  remember  Limerick!  dash  down  the  Sacsanagh  !" 

Like  lions  leaping  at  a  fold,  when  mad  with  hunger's  pang, 

Right  up  against  the  English  line  the  Irish  exiles  sprang ; 

Bright  was  their  steel,  'tis  bloody  now,  their  guns  are  filled  with  gore  ; 

Through  shattered  ranks,  and  severed  files,  and  trampled  flags  they  tore  ; 

The  English  strove  with  desperate  strength,  paused,  rallied,  scattered,  fled  ; 

The  green  hillside  is  matted  close  with  dying  and  with  dead. 

Across  the  plain,  and  far  away,  passed  on  that  hideous  wrack. 

While  cavalier  and  fantassin  dash  in  upon  their  track. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  like  eagles  in  the  sun, 

AVith  bloody  plumes  the  Irish  stand  ;  the  field  is  fought  and  won  ! 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  21 

John  Banim  was  the  founder  of  that  school  of  Irish  novelists, 
which,  always  excepting  its  blameless  purity,  so  much  resembles 
the  modern  romantic  French  school,  that  if  it  were  possible  to 
suspect  Messieurs  Victor  Hugo,  Eugene  Sue,  and  Alexander 
Dumas  of  reading  the  English,  which  they  never  approach  with- 
out such  ludicrous  blunders,  one  might  fancy  that  many-volumed 
tribe  to  have  stolen  their  peculiar  inspiration  from  the  O'Hara 
family.  Of  a  certainty  the  tales  of  Mr.  Banim  were  purely 
original.  They  had  no  precursors  either  in  our  own  language  or 
in  any  other,  and  they  produced  accordingly  the  sort  of  impression, 
more  vivid  than  durable,  which  highly-colored  and  deeply-shadow- 
ed novelty  is  sure  to  make  on  the  public  mind.  But  they  are 
also  intensely  national.  They  reflect  Irish  scenery,  Irish  char- 
acter, Irish  crime,  and  Irish  virtue,  with  a  general  truth  which, 
in  spite  of  their  tendency  to  melo-dramatic  effects,  will  keep  them 
fresh  and  life-like  for  many  a  day  after  the  mere  fashion  of  the 
novel  of  the  season  shall  be  past  and  gone.  The  last  of  his  works, 
especially,  "  Father  Connell,"  contains  the  portrait  of  a  parish, 
priest,  scr exquisitely  simple,  natural,  and  tender,  that  in  the 
whole  range  of  fiction  I  know  nothing  more  charming.  The  sub- 
ject was  one  that  the  author  loved  ;  witness  the  following  rude, 
rugged,  homely  song,  which  explains  so  well  the  imperishable  ties 
which  unite  the  peasant  to  his  pastor. 

SOGGARTH  AROON.* 

Am  I  the  slave  they  say, 

Soggarth  Aroon  1 
Since  you  did  show  the  way, 

Soggarth  Aroon, 
Their  slave  no  more  to  be, 
While  they  would  work  with  me 
Ould  Ireland's  slavery, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Why  not  her  poorest  man, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Try  and  do  all  he  can, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Her  commands  to  fulfill 
Of  his  own  heart  and  will, 
Side  by  side  with  you  still, 

Soggarth  aroon  *? 

*  Anglice.  Priest  dfar. 


22  K  K  C  O  1. 1.  K  C  r  IONS    O  F 

Loyal  and  bravo  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Yet  be  no  slave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Nor  out  of  fear  to  you 
Stand  up  so  near  to  you — 
Och !   out  of  fear  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon !  ^ 

Who  in  the  winter  night, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
When  the  could  blast  did  bite, 

Soggarth  aroon. 
Came  to  my  cabin-door. 
And  on  my  earthen  floor 
Knelt  by  me  sick  and  poor, 

Soggarth  aroon  1 

Who  on  the  marriage-day, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
And  did  both  laugh  and  sing, 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring 
At  the  poor  christening, 

Soggarth  aroon  1 

Who  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  aroon; 
Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
And  when  my  hearth  was  dim. 
Gave,  while  his  eye  did  brim, 
What  I  should  give  to  him, 

Soggarth  aroon'? 

Och  !   you,  and  only  you, 

Soggarth  aroon ! 
And  for  this  I  was  true  to  yon, 

Soggarth  aroon ; 
In  love  they'll  never  shake. 
When  for  ould  Ireland's  sake. 
We  a  true  part  did  take, 

Soggarth  aroon ! 

There  is  a  small  and  little-known  volume  of  these  rough  peas- 
ant-ballads, full  of  the  same  truth  and  intensity  of  feeling, — songs 
which  seem  destined  to  be  sung  at  the  wakes  and  patterns  of  Ire- 


•   .  A    LITERARY    LIFE.  26 

land.  But,  to  say  nothing  of  his  fine  classical  tragedy  of  "  Da- 
mon and  Pythias,"  Mr.  Banim,  so  successful  in  the  delineation  of 
the  sweet,  delicate,  almost  idealized  girl  of  the  people,  has  writ- 
ten at  least  one  song  that  may  rival  Gerald  Griffin  in  grace  and 
sentiment.     A  lover  sings  it  to  his  mistress. 

'Tis  not  for  love  of  gold  I  go, 

'Tis  not  for  love  of  fame ; 
Tliough  fortune  may  her  smile  bestow, 

And  I  may  win  a  name, 
Ailleen  ; 

And  I  may  win  a  name. 

And  yet  it  is  for  gold  I  go, 

And  yet  it  is  for  fame; 
That  they  may  deck  another  brow, 

And  bless  another  name, 
Ailleen ; 

And  bless  another  name. 

For  this,  but  this,  I  go — for  this 

I  leave  thy  love  awhile, 
And  all  the  soft  and  quiet  bliss 

Of  thy  young  faithful  smile, 
Ailleen ; 

Of  thy  young  faithful  smile. 

And  I  go  to  brave  a  world  I  hate. 

And  woo  it  o'er  and  o'er. 
And  tempt  a  wave,  and  try  a  fate 

Upon  a  stranger  shore, 

Ailleen ; 

Upon  a  stranger  shore. 

Oh  !   when  the  bays  arc  all  my  own, 

I  know  a  heart  will  care  ! 
Oh !   when  the  gold  is  sought  and  won, 

I  know  a  brow  will  wear, 
Ailleen ; 

I  know  a  brow  will  wear ! 

And,  when  with  both  returned  again 

My  native  land  I  see, 
I  know  a  smile  will  meet  me  then, 

And  a  hand  will  welcome  me, 
Ailleen ; 

And  n  hand  will  welcome  mc ! 


24  K  K  C  O  I.  L  E  C  T  I  O  X  S     O  F 

Is  it  not  strange  thrit  with  such  ballads  as  these  of  John  Banim, 
Thomas  Davis,  and  Gerald  Griffin  before  us,  Mr.  Moore,  that 
great  and  undoubted  wit,  should  pass  in  the  highest  English  cir- 
cles for  the  only  song-writer  of  Ireland  ?  Do  people  really  prefer 
flowers  made  of  silk  and  cambric,  of  gum  and  wire,  the  work  of 
human  hands  however  perfect,  to  such  as  Mother  Earth  sends 
forth  in  tlie  gushing  spring-time,  full  of  sap  and  odor,  sparkling 
with  sunshine  and  dripping  with  dew  ? 

I  can  find  no  regular  life  of  our  poet ;  nothing  beyond  a  chance 
record  of  a  kind  word  to  one  young  struggling  countryman,  and 
a  kind  act  to  another.  He  died  in  the  vigor  of  his  age  ;  mar- 
ried, and,  as  I  fear,  poor.  The  too  frequent  story  of  a  man  of 
genius. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  25 


III. 


AUTHORS   ASSOCIATED    WITH    PLACES. 

THOMAS    NOEL. 

Three  summers  ago  I  spent  a  few  pleasant  weeks  among  some 
of  the  loveliest  scenery  of  our  great  river.  The  banks  of  the 
Thames,  always  beautiful,  are  nowhere  more  delightful  than  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Maidenhead, — one  side  ramparted  by  the 
high,  abrupt,  chalky  cliffs  of  Buckinghamshire  ;  the  other  edging 
gently  away  into  our  rich  Berkshire  meadows,  checkered  with 
villages,  villas,  and  woods. 

My  own  temporary  home  was  one  of  singular  beauty, — a  snug 
cottage  at  Taplow,  looking  over  a  garden  full  of  honeysuckles, 
lilies,  and  roses,  to  a  miniature  terrace,  whose  steps  led  down 
into  the  water,  or  rather  into  our  little  boat  ;  the  fine  old  bridge 
at  Maidenhead  just  below  us  ;  the  magnificent  woods  of  Cliefden, 
crowned  with  the  lordly  mansion  (now,  alas  !  a  second  time  burnt 
down),  rising  high  above  ;  and  the  broad,  majestic  river,  fringed 
with  willow  and  alder,  gay  with  an  ever-changing  variety — the 
trim  pleasure-yacht,  the  busy  barge,  or  the  punt  of  the  solitary 
angler,  gliding  by  placidly  and  slowly,  the  veiy  image  of  calm 
and  conscious  power.  No  pleasantcr  residence,  through  the  sul- 
try months  of  July  and  August,  than  the  Bridge  cottage  at 
Taplow  ! 

Besides  the  natural  advantages  of  the  situation,  we  were  within 
reach  of  many  interesting  places,  of  which  we,  as  strangers,  con- 
trived— as  strangers  usually  do — to  see  a  great  deal  more  than 
the  actual  residents. 

A  six-mile  drive  took  us  to  the  lordly  towers  of  Windsor — the 
most  queenly  of  our  palaces — with  the  adjuncts  that  so  well  be- 
come the  royal  residence,  St.  George's  Chapel  and  Eton  College, 
fitting  shrines  of  learning  and  devotion  !     Windsor  was  full  of 

B 


26  Ur.COL  SECTIONS    OF 

charm.  The  plioslly  shadow  of  a  tree,  that  is,  or  passes  for, 
Heme's  oak — for  the  very  iii:m  oi  whom  we  inquired  our  way 
maiiitaiucd  that  the  tree  was  apoeryphal,  allhou<^h  ia  sueh  cases 
I  hohl  it  wisest  and  pleasanlest  to  believe — the  quaint  ohl  town 
itself,  with  tlie  localities  immortalized  by  Sir  John  and  Sir  Huah, 
Dame  Uuickly  and  Justice  Shallow,  and  all  the  company  of  the 
Merry  Wives,  had  to  me  an  unfailing  attraction.  To  Windsor 
■we  drove  apaiu  and  again,  until  the  pony  spontaneously  turned 
his  head  AViudsor-ward. 

Then  we  reviewed  the  haunts  of  Gray,  the  house  at  Stoke 
Pogis,  and  the  church-yard  M'here  he  is  buried,  and  which  con- 
tains the  touching  epitaph  wherein  the  pious  son  commemorates 
"the  careful  mother  of  many  children,  one  of  whom  only  had  the 
misfortune  to  survive  her."'  To  that  spot  we  drove  one  bright 
summer  dav,  and  "we  were  not  the  only  visitants.  It  was  pleasant 
to  see  one  admirer  seated  under  a  tree,  sketching  the  church,  and 
another  party,  escorted  by  the  clergyman,  walking  reverently 
through  it.  Stoke  Pogis,  however,  is  not  without  its  rivals  ;  and 
we  also  visited  the  old  church  at  Upton,  whose  ivy-mantled  tower 
claims  to  be  the  veritable  tower  of  the  "  Elegy."  A  very  curious 
scene  did  that  old  church  exhibit — that  of  an  edifice  not  yet 
decayed,  but  abandoned  to  decay  ;  an  incipient  ruin,  such  as 
probably  might  have  been  paralleled  in  the  monasteries  of  England 
after  the  Reformation,  or  in  the  churches  of  France  after  the  first 
Revolution.  The  walls  were  still  standing,  still  full  of  monu- 
ments and  monumental  inscriptions  ;  in  some  the  gilding  was  yet 
fresh,  and  one  tablet  especially  had  been  placed  there  veiy 
recently,  commemorating  the  talent  and  virtues  of  the  celebrated 
astronomer,  Sir  John  Herschell.  But  the  windows  were  denuded 
of  their  glass,  the  font  broken,  the  pews  dismantled,  while  on  the 
tottering  reading-desk  one  of  the  great  Prayer  books,  all  moldy 
and  damp,  still  lay  open — last  vestige  of  the  holy  services  with 
which  it  once  resounded.  Another  church  had  been  erected,  but 
it  looked  new  and  naked,  and  every  body  seemed  to  regret  the  old 
place  of  worship,  the  roof  of  which  was  remarkable  for  the  purity 
of  its  design.* 

Another  of  our  excursions  was  to  Ockwells — a  curious  and 
beautiful  specimen  of  domestic  architecture  in  the  days  before  the 

*  Since  writing  this  paper,  the  fine  old  cliuro.li  in  qni'stion  has  beon  com- 
pletely restored. 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  27 

Tudors.  Strange  it  seems  to  me  that  xio  one  has  exactly  imitated 
that  graceful  front,  with  its  steep  roof  terminated  on  either  side 
by  two  projecting  gables,  the  inner  one  lower  than  the  other, 
adorned  with  oak  carving,  regular  and  delicate  as  that  on  an 
ivory  fan.  The  porch  has  equal  elegance.  One  almost  expects 
to  see  some  baronial  hawking  party,  or  some  bridal  procession, 
issue  from  its  recesses.  The  great  hall,  although  its  grand  open 
roof  has  been  barbarously  closed  up,  still  retains  its  fine  propor- 
tions, its  dais,  its  music  gallery,  and  the  long  range  of  windows, 
still  adorned  with  the  mottoes  and  escutcheons  of  the  Norreys's, 
their  kindred  and  allies.  It  has  long  been  used  as  a  farm-house  ; 
and  one  marvels  that  the  painted  windows  should  have  remained 
uninjured  through  four  centuries  of  neglect  and  change.  Much 
that  AVas  interesting  has  disappeared,  but  enough  still  remains  to 
gratify  those  who  love  to  examine  the  picturesque  dwellings  of 
our  ancestors.  The  noble  staircase,  the  iron-studded  door,  the 
prodigious  lock,  the  gigantic  key  (too  heavy  for  a  woman  to 
wield)  the  cloistered  passages,  the  old  fashioned  buttery-hatch, 
give  a  view  not  merely  of  the  degree  of  civilization  of  the  age, 
but  of  the  habits  and  customs  of  familiar  daily  hie. 

Another  drive  took  us  to  the  old  grounds  of  Lady  Place,  where, 
in  demolishing  the  house,  care  had  been  taken  to  preserve  the 
vaults  in  which  the  great  Whig  leaders  wrote  and  signed  the 
famous  letter  to  Wilham  of  Orange,  which  drove  James  the 
Second  from  the  throne.  A  gloomy  place  it  is  now — a  sort  of 
underground  ruin — and  gloomy  enough  the  patriots  must  have 
found  it  on  that  memorable  occasion  :  the  tombs  of  the  monks  (it 
had  formerly  been  a  monastery)  under  their  feet,  the  rugged  walls 
around  them,  and  no  ray  of  light,  except  the  lanterns  they  may 
have  brought  with  them,  or  the  torches  which  they  lit.  Surely 
the  signature  of  that  summons  which  secured  the  liberties  of 
England  would  make  an  impressive  picture — Lord  Somers  in  the 
foreground,  and  the  other  Whig  statesmen  grouped  around  him. 
A  Latin  inscription  records  a  visit  made  by  George  111.  to  the 
vaults  ;  and  truly  it  is  among  the  places  that  monarchs  would  do 
well  to  visit — full  of  stern  lessons  ! 

Chief  pilgrimage  of  all  was  one  that  led  us  first  to  Beacons- 
field,  through  the  dclighti'ul  lanes  of  Buckinghamshire,  with  thcii 
luxuriance  of  hedge-row  timber,  and  their  patches  of  heathy  com 
iron.      There  we  paid  willing  homage  to  all  that  remained  ol 


2S  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

tlu»  habitation  coiisccratoil  by  tlic  penius  of  Edmunil  Burke. 
Little  is  left,  boyciul  <ratos  and  outbuildings,  for  tlie  Iwuse  has 
been  burned  down,  and  the  frrounds  disparked  ;  but  still  some  of" 
his  old  walks  remained,  and  an  old  well,  and  traces  of  an  old 
garden — and  pleasant  it  was  to  tread  where  such  a  man  had 
trodden,  and  to  converse  with  the  few  who  still  remembered  him. 
\\'e  saw,  too,  the  stalwart  yeoman  who  had  the  honor  not  only 
of  furnishiuir  to  Sir  Joshua  the  model  of  his  "  Infant  Hercules," 
but  even  of  sujrjresting  the  subject.  Thus  it  happened  : — Passing 
a  few  days  with  Mr.  Burke  at  his  favorite  retirement,  the  great 
painter  accompanied  his  host  on  a  visit  to  his  bailiff.  A  noble 
boy  lay  sprawling  in  the  cradle  in  the  room  where  they  sat.  His 
mother  would  fain  have  removed  him,  but  Sir  Joshua,  then  com- 
missioned to  paint  a  picture  for  the  Empress  Catlieriue,  requested 
that  the  child  might  remain,  sent  with  all  speed  for  palette  and 
easel,  and  accomplished  his  task  with  that  success  which  so  fre- 
quently waits  upon  a  sudden  inspiration.  It  is  remarkable  that 
the  good  farmer,  whose  hearty,  cordial  kindness  I  sliall  not  soon 
forget,  has  kept  m  a  manner  most  unusual  the  promise  of  his 
sturdy  infancy,  and  makes  as  near  an  api)roach  to  the  propor- 
tions of  the  fabled  Hercules  as  ever  Buckinghamshire  yeoman  dis- 
played. 

Beaconsfield,  however,  and  even  the  cherished  retirement  of 
Burke  was  by  no  means  the  goal  of  our  pilgrimage.  The  true 
shrine  was  to  be  found  four  miles  farther,  in  the  small  cottage  at 
Chalfont  St.  Giles,  whore  Milton  found  a  refuge  during  the  Great 
Plague  of  London. 

The  road  wound  through  lanes  still  shadier,  and  hedgerows 
still  richer,  where  the  tall  trees  rose  from  banks  overhung  with 
fern,  intermixed  with  spires  of  purple  foxglove  ;  sometimes  broken 
by  a  bit  of  mossy  park-paling,  sometimes  by  the  light  shades  of 
a  beech-wood,  until  at  last  we  reached  the  quiet  and  secluded 
village  whose  very  first  dwelling  was  consecrated  by  the  abode 
of  the  great  poet. 

It  is  a  small  tenement  of  four  rooms,  one  on  either  side  the 
door,  standing  in  a  little  garden,  and  having  its  gable  to  the  road. 
A  short  inscription,  almost  hidden  by  the  folinge  of  the  vine,  tells 
that  Milton  once  lived  within  those  sacred  walls.  The  cottage 
lias  been  so  seldom  visited,  is  so  little  desecrated  by  thronging 
admirers,  and  has  suffered  so  little  from  alteration  or  decav,  and 


A    LITEKARY    LIFE.  29 

all  about  it  has  so  exactly  the  serene  and  tranquil  aspect  that  one 
should  expect  to  see  in  an  English  village  two  centuries  ago,  that 
it  requires  but  a  slight  eflbrt  of  fancy  to  image  to  ourselves  the 
old  blind  bard  still  sitting  in  that  little  parlor,  or  sunning  him- 
self on  the  garden-seat  beside  the  well.  Milton  is  said  to  have 
corrected  at  Chalfont  some  of  the  sheets  of  the  "  Paradise  Lost." 
The  "Paradise  Regained,"  he  certainly  composed  there.  One 
loves  to  think  of  him  in  that  calm  retreat, — to  look  round  that 
poor  room,  and  think  how  Genius  ennobles  all  she  touches ! 
Heaven  forefend  that  change  in  any  shape,  whether  of  embellish- 
ment or  of  decay,  should  fall  upon  that  cottage  ! 

Another  resort  of  ours,  not  a  pilgrimage,  but  a  haunt,  was  the 
forest  of  old  pollards,  known  by  the  name  of  Burnham  Beeches. 
A  real  forest  it  is — six  hundred  acres  in  extent,  and  varied  bj 
steep  declivities,  wild  dells,  and  tangled  dingles.  The  ground, 
clothed  with  the  fine  short  turf  where  the  thyme  and  the  hare- 
bell love  to  grow,  is  partly  covered  with  luxuriant  fern  ;  and  the 
juniper  and  the  holly  form  a  fitting  underwood  for  those  magnifi- 
cent trees,  hollowed  by  age,  whose  profuse  canopy  of  leafy  boughs 
seems  so  much  too  heavy  for  the  thin  rind  by  which  it  is  supported. 
Mr.  Grote  has  a  house  here,  on  which  we  looked  with  reverence  ; 
and  in  one  of  the  loveliest  spots,  we  came  upon  a  monument 
erected  by  Mrs.  Grote  in  memory  of  Mendelssohn,  and  enriched 
by  an  elegant  inscription  from  her  pen. 

We  were  never  weary  of  wandering  among  the  Burnham 
Beeches ;  sometimes  taking  Dropmore  by  the  way,  where  the 
taste  of  the  late  Lord  Grenville  created  from  a  barren  heath  a 
perfect  Eden  of  rare  trees  and  matchless  flowers.  But  even  bet- 
ter than  amid  that  sweet  woodland  scene  did  I  love  to  ramble  by 
the  side  of  the  Thames,  as  it  bounded  the  beautiful  grounds  of 
Lord  Orkney,  or  the  magnificent  demesne  of  Sir  George  Warren- 
der,  the  verdant  lawns  of  Cliefden, 

That  place  also  is  full  of  memories.  There  it  was  that  the 
famous  Duke  of  Buckingham  fought  his  no  less  famous  duel  with 
Lord  Shrewsbury,  while  the  fair  countess,  dressed  rather  than  tlis- 
guised  as  a  page,  held  the  horse  of  her  victorious  paramour.  We 
loved  to  gaze  on  that  princely  mansion,  repeating  to  each  other 
the  marvelous  lines  in  which  our  two  matchless  satirists  have 
immortalized  the  Duke's  lollies,  and  doubting  which  portrait 
were  the  best.     We  may  at  least  be  sure  that  no  third  painter 


80  IvKiuL  L  KCT  I  UNS    OF 

•will  I'xrol  tlu'in.*  Alas  I  who  reads  Pope  or  Dryden  now  ?  I 
am  alraiil,  very  imu-li  alVaid,  that  to  many  a  lair  yoiiiijy;  reader, 
those  celebrated  eharaelcrs  will  be  as  pood  as  manuscript.  I 
will  at  all  events  try  the  experiment.      Here  they  be  : 

"  la  the  flrst  rank  of  these  did  Ziinii  stand: 
A  man  so  various,  that  he  seemed  to  be 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  eiiilonic ; 
Stiff  in  oi>inions,  always  in  the  wrong, 
Was  every  thing  by  starts  and  nothing  long; 
But,  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon, 
Was  chemist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  balloon ; 
Then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drinking. 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thiidiing. 
Blest  madman,  who  could  every  hour  employ 
With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy  !" 

Drydkn.     Absalom  and  Achitophel. 

Now  for  the  little  hunchback  of  Twickenham — 

In  the  worst  inn's  worst  room,  with  mat  half  hung. 

The  walls  of  i)laster,  and  the  floor  of  dung ; 

On  once  a  flockbed,  but  repaired  with  straw, 

"With  tape-tied  curtains  never  meant  to  draw, 

The  George  and  Garter  dangling  from  that  bed. 

Where  tawdry  j-ellow  strove  with  dirtj-  red : 

Great  Villiers  lies : — but  ah,  how  changed  from  liim, 

That  life  of  pleasure  and  that  soul  of  whim. 

Gallant  and  gay  in  Cliefden's  proud  alcove. 

The  bower  of  wanton  Shrewsbury  and  love ! 

Or  just  as  gay  at  council  'mid  the  ring 

Of  mimic  statesmen  and  their  merry  king ! 

No  wit  to  flatter  left  of  all  his  store  ; 

No  fool  to  laugh  at,  which  he  valued  more  ; 

There,  victor  of  his  health,  of  fortune,  friends 

And  fame,  the  lord  of  useless  thousands  ends !" 

PoP£.     Mural  Essays. 

The  charming  walk  at  Lord  Orkney's,  which  I  was  so  kindly 
permitted  to  enjoy,  and  which  I  did  enjoy  so  thoroughly,  ran  be- 
tween the  noble  river  shaded  and  overhung  by  trees,  and  the 
high,  steep,  chalky  cliffs,  also  clothed  with  trees  to  the  very  sum- 
mit ;  trees  of  all  kinds,  the  oak,  the  beech,  the  ash,  the  elm,  the 

*  And  yet  they  have  been  almost  equaled  by  a  French  artist ;  Count 
Anthony  Hamilton  in  the  Memoires  de  Graramont. 


A    LITEIJAHY    LIFE.  Si 

yew,  the  cypress,  the  pine,  the  juniper.  The  woodland  path,  no 
trimly  kept  walk,  but  a  rude,  narrow  cart-track,  thridded  its  way 
amid  nooks  so  closely  planted  and  branches  so  interlaced,  that 
oftentimes  the  water  only  glanced  upon  us  by  glimpses  through 
the  foliage,  just  as  in  looking  upward  we  caught  a  gleam  of  the 
blue  sky.  Sometimes  again  it  was  totally  hidden,  and  we  only 
felt  the  presence  of  the  river  by  the  refreshing  coolness  of  the 
breeze,  and  the  gentle  rippling  of  the  slow  current  ;  while,  some- 
times, a  sudden  opening  would  give  to  view  some  rude  landing- 
place  where  the  boats  were  laden  with  chalk  ;  or  a  vista  acci- 
dentally formed  by  the  felling  of  some  large  tree  would  show  us 
an  old  mill  across  the  stream  framed  in  by  meeting  branches  like 
a  picture. 

The  Taplow  spring,  witli  its  pretty  cottage  for  picknicks,  often 
proved  the  end  of  our  evening  walks.  I  loved  to  see  the  gushing 
of  that  cool,  clear,  spaiicling  spring,  plashing  over  the  huge  stones 
that  seemed  meant  to  restrain  it,  sporting  in  pools  and  eddies, 
and  lost  almost  as  soon  as  it  wells  from  the  earth  amid  the 
waters  of  the  silver  Thames. 

Steep  as  it  seems  and  is,  the  chalky  cliff  is  not  inaccessible. 
Here  and  there  it  recedes  from  the  river,  sometimes  hollowed  into 
deep  caves,  and  then  again  it  advances  with  a  more  gradual 
slope,  so  as  to  admit  of  zigzag  walks  practiced  to  the  summit. 
These  walks,  almost  buried  among  the  rich  foliage,  have  a  singu- 
lar attraction  in  their  steepness  and  their  difficulty.  Long 
branches  of  ivy  trail  from  the  cliff  in  every  direction,  mingled  at 
this  season  with  a  gorgeous  profusion  of  the  clinging  woodbine, 
the  yellow  St.  John's  wort,  and  the  large  purple  flowers  of  the 
Canterbury  bell.  Our  steps  were  literally  impeded  by  these  long 
garlands.  Our  feet  were  perpetually  entangled  in  them.  We 
crushed  them  as  we  passed. 

The  view  from  the  Hermit's  hut,  on  the  height,  is  among 
those  that  can  never  be  forgotten.  We  looked  over  the  tops  of 
the  tall  trees,  down  a  sheer  descent  of  I  know  not  how  many 
hundred  feet,  to  a  weir  upon  the  Thames,  foaming  and  brawling 
under  our  very  eyes.  Just  beyond  was  one  of  the  loveliest 
reaches  of  the  river,  with  Cookham  bridge  and  the  fine  old 
church  forming  a  picture  in  itself  Then  came  a  wide  extent  of 
field  and  meadow,  mansion  and  village,  lower  and  spire,  the  rich 
woods  of  Berkshire  interspersed  among  all,  the  noble  river  wind- 


32  UECOL LECTIONS    OF 

insr  away  into  the  dislam-e,  and  the  iar-ofl'  liills  ininfrlinj^  with 
the  clouds,  until  we  knew  not  which  was  earth  or  wliicli  was 
sky. 

Very  pleasant  was  that  sojourn  by  the  Thames  side.  And 
among  the  pleasures  that  I  most  value,  one  of  those  which  I 
brouijht  home  with  me  and  trust  never  to  lose,  must  be  reckoned 
the  becoming  acquainted  with  Mr.  Noel's  "  Rymes  and  Rounde- 
layes,"  and  ibnning,  not  an  acquaintance,  for  we  have  never  met, 
but  a  friendship  with  the  author. 

Mr.  Noel  resides  in  a  beautiful  place  in  that  beautiful  neigh- 
borhood, leading  the  life  of  an  accomplished  but  somewhat  se- 
cluded country  gentleman  ; — a  most  enviable  life,  and  one  well 
adapted  to  the  observation  of  nature  and  to  the  pi-oduction  of 
poetry,  but  by  no  means  so  well  calculated  to  make  a  volume 
of  poems  extensively  known.  Hence  it  is  that  the  elegant  and 
graphic  description  of  Thames  scenery  which  I  subjoin,  although 
it  has  been  published  nearly  ten  years,  will  probably  have  tlie 
charm  of  novelty  to  many  of  my  readers. 

A  THAMES  VOYAGE. 

Gracefully,  gracefully  glides  our  bark 

On  the  bosom  of  Father  Thames, 
And  before  her  bows  the  wavelets  dark 

Break  into  a  thousand  gems. 

The  kingfisher  not  straighter  darts 

Down  the  stream  to  his  sweet  mate's  nest. 

Than  our  arrowy  pinnace  shoots  and  parts 
The  river's  yielding  breast. 

We  have  passed  the  chalk-cliff  on  whose  crown 

The  hermit's  hut  doth  cling, 
And  the  bank,  whoso  hanging  woods  look  do^Ti 

On  the  smile  of  Cliefden  spring. 

We  are  come  where  Hedsor's  crested  foimt 

Pours  forth  its  babbling  rill, 
And  where  the  charmed  eye  loves  to  mount 

To  the  small  church  on  the  hill. 

On,  like  a  hawk  upon  the  wing, 

Our  little  wherry  flies  ; 
Against  her  bows  the  ripples  sing. 

And  the  wavelets  round  her  rise. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  33 

In  view  iij  Cookliara's  ivied  tovvei- ; 

And,  up  yon  willowy  reach, 
Enfolding  many  a  fairy  bower, 

Wave  Bisham's  woods  of  beech. 

O'er  Marlow's  loveliest  vale  they  look. 

And  its  spire  that  seeks  the  skies  ; 
And  afar,  to  where  in  its  meadow-nook 

Medmenham's  Abbey  lies. 

Still  on,  still  on,  as  we  smoothly  glide, 

There  are  charms  that  woo  the  eye, — 
Boughs  waving  green  in  the  pictured  tide. 

And  the  blue  reflected  sky. 

Swift  dragon-flies,  with  their  gauzy  wings. 

Flit  glistening  to  and  fro, 
And  murmuring  hosts  of  moving  things 

O'er  the  waters  glance  and  glow. 

There  are  spots  where  nestle  wild  flowers  small 

With  many  a  mingling  gleam  ; 
Where  the  broad  flag  waves,  and  the  bulrush  tall 

Nods  still  to  the  thrusting  stream. 

The  Forget-me-not  on  the  water's  edge 

Reveals  her  lovely  hue, 
Where  the  broken  bank,  between  the  sedge, 

Is  embroidered  with  her  blue. 

And  in  bays  where  matted  foliage  weaves 

A  shadowy  arch  on  high, 
Serene  on  broad  and  bronze-like  leaves, 

The  virgin  lilies  lie. 

Fair  fall  those  bonny  flowers !     0  how 

I  love  their  petals  bright ! 
Smoother  than  Ariel's  moonlit  brow ! 

The  Water-Nymph's  delight ! 

Those  milk-white  cups  witli  a  golden  core, 

Like  marble  lami)s,  that  throw 
So  soft  a  light  on  the  l)ordering  shore. 

And  the  waves  that  round  them  flow! 

Steadily,  steadily,  speeds  our  bark. 

O'er  the  silvery  whirls  she  springs; 
While  merry  as  lay  of  morning  lark 

The  watery  carol  rings. 


84  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Lo !  a  siiiling  swim,  with  a  littlo  lU'ct 

()f  lygiH'ts  by  her  side, 
Pushiiii;  her  snowy  bosom  sweet 

Against  the  bubbHng  tide  ! 

And  see — was  ever  a  lovelier  sight  1 

One  little  bird  afloat 
On  its  mother's  back,  'ncatli  her  wing  so  wliiti', — 

A  beauteous  living  boat ! 

The  threat ful  male,  as  he  sails  ahead, 

Like  a  cliampion  proud  and  bravo, 
Makes  with  his  ruffling  wings  outspread, 

Fierce  jerks  along  the  wave. 

He  tramples  the  stream,  as  we  pass  him  by, 

In  wrath  from  its  surface  springs, 
And  after  our  boat  begins  to  fly, 

With  loudly-flapping  wings. 

Gracefully,  gracefully  glides  our  bark, 

And  the  curling  current  stems, 
Where  the  willows  cast  their  shadows  dark. 

And  the  ripples  gleam  like  gems ; 
Oh  !  there's  many  a  charming  scene  to  mark 

From  the  bosom  of  Father  Thames. 

The   following  powerful   lines  are  better  known,  and  serve  to 
bIiow  the  variety  of  Mr.  Noel's  talent. 

THE  PAUPER'S  DRIVE. 

There's  a  grim  one-horse  hearse  in  a  jolly  round  trot ; 

To  the  church-yard  a  pauper  is  going,  I  wot ; 

The  road  it  is  rough,  and  the  hearse  has  no  springs. 

And  hark  to  the  dirge  that  the  sad  driver  sings  : — 
Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  • 
He"s  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns. 

Oh,  where  are  the  mourners  1     Alas  !  there  are  none  ; 
He  has  left  not  a  gap  in  the  world  now  he's  gone ; 
Not  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  or  man : — 
To  the  grave  with  his  carcass  as  fast  as  you  can. 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones ; 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns. 

What  a  jolting  and  creaking  and  splashing  and  din  ! 
The  whip  how  it  cracks,  and  the  wheels  how  they  spin ! 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  35 

How  the  dirt  right  and  left  o'er  the  hedges  is  hurled ! 
The  pauper  at  length  makes  a  noise  in  the  world. 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones ; 

He's  only  a  jjauper,  whom  nobodj'  owns. 

Poor  pauper  defunct !  he  has  made  some  approach 
To  gentility,  now  that  he's  stretched  in  a  coach ; 
He's  taking  a  drive  in  his  carriage  at  last, 
But  it  will  not  be  long  if  he  goes  on  so  fast ! 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones ; 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns. 


The  author  tells  me  that  this  incident  was  taken  from  the  life. 
He  witnessed  such  a  funeral  : — a  coffin  in  a  cart  driven  at  full 
speed. 

But  a  truce  to  this  strain  !  for  my  soul  it  is  sad 
To  think  that  a  heart  in  humanity  clad 
Should  make,  like  the  brutes,  such  a  desolate  end. 
And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving  a  friend. 
Bear  softl}'  his  bones  over  the  stones, 
Though  a  pauper,  he's  one  whom  his  Maker  yet  owns. 


86  K  E  C  O  L  L  E  C  T  1  O  N  S   O  F 


IV. 

OLD    AUTHORS. 

AERAIIAM    COWLEY. 

As  in  the  case  of  Ben  Jonson,  posterity  values  his  writings  for 
very  dilierent  qualities  from  those  which  obtained  his  high  repu- 
tation among  his  cotemporaries,  so  it  has  happened  to  (Jowley. 

Praised  in  his  day  as  a  great  poet,  the  head  of  the  school  of 
poets  called  metaphysical,  he  is  now  chiefly  known  by  those  prose 
essays,  all  too  short  and  all  too  few,  which,  -whether  for  thought 
or  for  expression,  have  rarely  been  excelled  by  any  writer  in  any 
language.  They  are  eminently  distinguished  for  the  grace,  the 
finish,  and  the  clearness  which  his  verse  too  often  wants.  That 
there  is  one  cry  which  pervades  them — vanity  of  vanities  I  all  is 
vanity  ! — that  there  is  an  almost  ostentatious  longing  for  ob- 
scurity and  retirement,  may  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  at 
an  early  age  Cowley  was  thrown  among  the  cavaliers  of  the  civil 
wars,  sharing  the  exile  and  the  return  of  the  Stuarts,  and  doubt- 
less disgusted,  as  so  pure  a  writer  was  pretty  sure  to  be,  by  a  dis- 
solute Court,  with  whom  he  would  fmd  it  easier  to  sympathize  in 
its  misery  than  in  its  triumph.  Buckingham,  with  the  fellow- 
feeling  of  talent  for  talent,  appears  to  have  been  kind  to  him  ; 
and  when  he  fled  from  the  world  (not  very  far,  he  found  his  be- 
loved solitude  at  Chertsey),  it  is  satisfactory  to  know  that  he  so 
far  escaped  the  proverbial  ingratitude  of  the  Restoration  as  to 
carry  with  him  an  income  sufficient  for  his  moderate  wants.  He 
did  not  long  survive  a  retirement  which,  Sprat  says,  in  a  curious 
life  prefixed  to  the  edition  of  his  works  in  1719,  "  agreed  better 
with  his  mind  than  his  body." 

It  is  difficult  to  select  from  a  volume  so  abundant  in  riches  ; 
but  I  will  begin  by  his  opinion  of  theatrical  audiences  contained 
in  "  The  Preface  to  the  Cutter  of  Coleman  Street ;" 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  87 

"  There  is  no  writer  but  may  fail  sometimes  iix  point  of  wit ; 
and  it  is  no  less  frequent  for  the  auditoi-s  to  fail  in  point  of  judg- 
ment. I  perceive  plainly  by  daily  experience  that  Fortune  is 
mistress  of  the  theater,  as  Tully  says  it  is  of  all  popular  assem- 
blies. No  man  can  tell  sometimes  from  whence  the  invisible 
winds  rise  that  move  them.  There  are  a  multitude  of  people 
who  are  truly  and  only  spectators  of  a  play  without  any  use  of 
their  understanding  ;  and  these  carry  it  sometimes  by  the  strength 
of  their  numbers.  There  are  others  who  use  their  understand- 
ings too  much  ;  who  think  it  a  sign  of  weakness  and  stupidity 
to  let  any  thing  pass  by  them  unattacked,  and  that  the  honor  of 
their  judgment  (as  some  mortals  imagine  of  their  courage)  con- 
sists in  quarreling  with  every  thnig.  We  are,  therefore,  won- 
derful wise  men,  and  have  a  fine  business  of  it,  we  who  spend 
our  time  in  poetry.  I  do  sometimes  laugh,  and  am  often  angry 
with  myself  when  I  think  on  it ;  and  if  I  had  a  son  inclined  by 
nature  to  the  same  folly,  I  believe  I  should  bind  him  from  it  by 
the  strictest  conjurations  of  a  paternal  blessing.  For  what  can 
be  more  ridiculous  than  to  labor  to  give  men  delight,  while  they 
labor  on  their  part  more  earnestly  to  take  ofiense  ?  to  expose 
oneself  voluntarily  and  frankly  to  all  the  dangers  of  that  narrow 
passage  to  unprofitable  fame,  which  is  defended  by  rude  multi- 
tudes of  the  ignorant,  and  by  armed  troops  of  the  malicious  ?  If 
we  do  ill,  many  discover  it,  and  all  despise  us.  If  we  do  well, 
but  few  men  find  it  out,  and  fewer  entertain  it  kindly.  If  we 
commit  errors,  there  is  no  pardon ;  if  we  could  do  wonders,  there 
would  be  but  little  thanks,  and  that  too  extorted  from  unwilling 
givers." 

Of  course  his  play  had  been  coldly  received.  Here  is  another 
bit  of  autobiography,  singularly  interesting,  as  coming  from  one 
who,  although  he  never  could  retain  the  rules  of  grammar,  was 
an  eminent  scholar,  and  the  most  precocious  of  all  poets.  It 
forms  part  of  the  essay,  headed  "  Of  Myself" 

"  It  is  a  hard  and  a  nice  subject  for  a  man  to  write  of  himself 
It  pains  his  own  heart  to  say  any  thing  of  disparagement,  and  tlie 
reader's  ears  to  hear  any  thing  of  praise  from  him.  There  is  no 
danger  from  me  of  my  offending  him  in  that  kind ;  neither  my 
mind,  nor  my  body,  nor  my  fortune,  allow  me  any  materials  for 
that  vanity. 

^  #  ^  ^  ijff  #  ^ 


38  RECOLLECTIOXSOF 

"  As  far  as  my  memory  can  return  back  into  my  past  life 
before  I  knew,  or  was  capable  of  guessing,  what  the  world,  or  the 
glories  or  business  of  it  were,  the  natural  aiVcctions  of  my  soul 
gave  me  a  secret  bent  of  aversion  from  them,  as  some  plants  are 
said  to  turn  away  from  others  by  an  antipathy,  imperceptible  to 
themselves  and  inscrutable  to  man's  understanding.  Even  when 
I  was  a  very  young  boy  at  school,  instead  of  roaming  about  on 
holydays,  and  playing  with  my  fellows,  I  was  wont  to  steal  from 
them,  and  walk  into  the  fields,  either  alone  with  a  book,  or  with 
Eomo  one  companion  if  I  could  find  him  of  the  same  temper.  I 
was  then,  too,  so  much  an  enemy  to  all  constraint,  that  my  mas- 
ters could  never  prevail  on  me  by  any  persuasions  or  encourage- 
ments to  learn  without  book  the  common  rules  of  grammar  ;  in 
which  they  dispensed  with  me  alone,  because  they  found  I  made 
a  shift  to  do  the  same  exercise  out  of  my  own  reading  and  observa- 
tion. That  1  was  then  of  the  same  mind  that  I  am  now  (which, 
I  confess,  I  wonder  at  myself)  may  appear  by  the  latter  end  of  an 
ode,  which  I  made  when  I  was  but  thirteen  years  old,  and 
which  was  then  pi'inted  with  many  other  verses.  The  be- 
ginning of  it  is  boyish,  but  of  this  part  which  I  have  set  down 
(if  a  very  little  were  corrected)  I  should  hardly  now  be  much 
eiohamed  : 

"  This  only  gi-ant  me,  that  my  means  may  lie, 
Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honor  I  would  have, 
Not  from  great  deeds,  but  good  alone ; 
The  unknown  are  better  than  ill  known; 

Rumor  can  ope  the  grave. 
Acquaintance  I  would  have,  but  when't  depends, 
Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice  of  friends. 

"  Books  should,  as  business,  entertain  the  light, 
And  sleep  as  itndisturbed  as  death,  the  night. 

My  house,  a  cottage  more 
Than  palace ;  and  should  fitting  be 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxury. 

My  garden  painted  o'er 
With  nature's  hand,  not  art's ;   and  pleasures  yield, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

"  Thus  would  I  double  my  life's  fading  space, 
For  he  that  runs  it  well,  twice  runs  his  race. 
And  in  this  time  delight, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE,  39 

These  unbought  sports,  this  happy  state, 
I  would  not  fear,  nor  wish  my  fate ; 

But  boldly  say  each  niglit, 
To-moiTow  let  my  sun  his  beams  displaj'. 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them — I  have  lived  to-day. 

"  You  may  see  by  it  I  was  even  then  acquainted  with  the  poets 
(for  the  conclusion  is  taken  out  of  Horace)  ;  and  perhaps  it  was 
tiie  immature  and  immoderate  love  of  them  which  stamped  first, 
or  rather  engraved  these  characters  in  me  :  they  were  like  letters 
cut  into  the  bark  of  a  young  tree,  which,  with  the  tree,  still  grows 
proportionably.  But  how  this  love  came  to  be  produced  in  me  so 
early  is  a  hard  question.  I  believe  I  can  tell  the  particular  little 
chance  that  filled  my  head  first  with  such  chimes  of  verse  as  have 
never  since  left  ringing  there  :  for  I  remember  when  I  began  to 
read  and  to  take  some  pleasure  in  it,  there  was  wont  to  lie  in  my 
mother's  parlor  (I  know  not  by  what  accident,  for  she  herself 
never  in  her  life  read  any  book  but  of  devotion),  but  there  was 
wont  to  lie  Spenser's  works.  This  I  happened  to  fall  upon,  and 
was  infinitely  delighted  with  the  stories  of  the  knights,  and  giants, 
and  monsters,  and  brave  houses  which  I  found  everywhere  there 
(though  my  understanding  had  little  to  do  with  all  this)  ;  and 
by  degrees  with  the  tinkling  of  the  rhyme  and  dance  of  the  num- 
bers ;  so  that  I  think  I  had  read  him  all  over  before  I  Avas  twelve 
years  old,  and  was  thus  made  a  poet. 

"  With  these  affections  of  mind,  and  my  heart  wholly  set  upon 
letters,  I  went  to  the  University  ;  but  was  soon  torn  from  thence  by 
that  violent  public  storm  which  would  suffer  nothing  to  stand  where 
it  did,  but  rooted  up  every  plant,  even  from  the  princely  cedars 
to  me  the  hyssop.  Yet  I  had  as  good  fortune  as  could  have  be- 
fallen in  such  a  tempest  ;  for  I  was  cast  by  it  into  the  family  of 
one  of  the  best  persons,  and  into  the  Court  of  one  of  the  best 
princesses  of  the  world.  Now,  though  I  was  here  engaged  in 
ways  most  contrary  to  the  original  design  of  my  life,  that  is,  hito 
much  company,  and  no  small  business,  and  into  a  daily  sight  of 
greatness,  both  militant  and  triumphant  (for  that  was  the  state 
then  of  the  English  and  French  Courts) ;  yet  all  this  was  so  far 
from  altering  my  opinion,  that  it  only  added  the  confirmation  of 
reason  to  that  which  was  before  but  natural  inclination.  I  saw 
clearly  all  the  paint  of  that  kind  of  life,  the  nearer  I  came  to  it ; 
and  that  beauty  which   I   did   not  fall   in  love  with,  when,  for 


40  KKCOL LECTIONS     OF 

aiijilit  1  know,  it  was  real,  was  not  like  to  bewilder  or  entice  mc, 
when  1  saw  tliat  it  was  adulterate.  1  met  with  several  great 
persons  whom  1  liked  very  well,  but  eould  not  perceive  that  any 
j)art  ol  their  greatness  was  to  be  liked  or  desired,  no  more  than  1 
would  be  glad  or  content  to  be  in  a  storm  although  I  saw  many 
ships  which  rid  sal'ely  and  bravely  in  it :  a  storm  would  not 
agree  with  my  stomach,  if  it  did  with  my  courage.  Though  I 
was  in  a  crowd  of  as  good  company  as  could  be  found  anywliere, 
though  1  was  in  business  of  great  and  honorable  trust,  though  I 
ate  at  the  best  table,  and  enjoyed  the  best  conveniences  for  jires- 
ent  subsistence  that  ought  to  be  desired  by  a  man  of  my  condition 
in  banishment  and  public  distresses,  yet  I  could  not  abstain  from 
renewing  my  old  school-boy's  wish  in  a  copy  of  verses  to  the  same 
cfl'ect  : 

"  Well,  then,  I  now  do  plainly  see, 
This  busy  world  and  I  shall  ne'er  agree. 

"  And  I  never  then  proposed  to  myself  any  other  advantage 
from  his  Majesty's  happy  Restoration,  but  the  getting  into  some 
moderately  convenient  reti-eat  in  the  country,  which  I  thought  in 
that  case  I  might  easily  have  compassed,  as  well  as  some  others, 
who,  with  no  greater  probabilities  or  pretenses,  have  arrived  to 
extraordinary  fortune  :  but  I  had  before  written  a  shrewd  proph- 
ecy against  myself ;  and  I  think  Apollo  inspired  me  in  the  truth, 
though  not  in  the  elegance  of  it  ; 

"  Thou  neither  great  at  court,  nor  in  the  war, 
Nor  at  the  exchange  shalt  be,  nor  at  the  wrangling  bar. 
Content  thyself  witli  the  small  barren  praise, 
Which  neglected  verse  doth  raise. 

"  However,  by  the  failing  of  the  forces  which  I  had  expected, 
I  did  not  quit  the  design  which  1  had  resolved  on.  I  cast  myself 
into  it  a  corps  perdu  without  making  capitulations,  or  taking 
counsel  of  Fortune.  But  God  laughs  at  a  man  who  says  to  his 
soul.  Take  thy  ease.  I  met  presently  not  only  with  many  little 
incumbrances  and  impediments,  but  with  so  much  sickness  (a 
new  misfortune  to  me)  as  would  have  spoilt  tlie  happiness  of  au 
emperor,  as  well  as  mine.  Yet  do  I  neither  repent  nor  alter  my 
course  non  ego  pcrfdum  dixi  sacr amentum,  nothing  shall  sepa- 
rate me  from  a  mistress  which  I  have  loved  so  long,  and  have  now 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  41 

at  last  married,  though  she  neither  has  brought  me  a  rich  portion, 
nor  lived  yet  so  quietly  with  me  as  I  hoped  irom  her. 

"  Nor  by  me  e'er  shall  j'ou, 
You,  of  all  names,  the  sweetest  and  the  best, 
You,  Muses,  books,  and  liberty,  and  rest ; 
You,  gardens,  fields,  and  woods,  forsaken  be, 
As  long  as  life  itself  forsakes  not  me." 

The  same  vein  runs  through  the  charnaing  Essay  "  Of  Obscu- 
rity." 

*  *  *  "  The  pleasantest  condition  of  life  is  in  incognito. 
What  a  brave  privilege  is  it  to  be  free  from  all  contentions,  from 
all  envying,  or  being  envied,  from  receiving  or  paying  all  kind  of 
ceremonies  !  It  is,  in  my  mind,  a  very  delightful  pastime  for  tv/o 
good  and  agreeable  friends  to  travel  up  and  down  together  in 
places  where  they  are  by  nobody  known,  nor  know  any  body.  It 
was  the  case  of  ^Eneas  and  his  Achates,  when  they  walked  in- 
visibly about  the  fields  and  streets  of  Carthage.     Venus  herself, 

"  A  vail  of  thickened  air  around  them  cast. 
That  none  might  know  or  see  them  as  they  passed." 

"  The  common  story  of  Demosthenes'  confession,  that  he  had 
taken  a  great  pleasure  in  hearing  of  a  basket-woman  say,  as  he 
passed  :  '  This  is  that  Demosthenes,'  is  wonderful  ridiculous  from 
so  solid  an  orator.  I  myself  have  often  met  with  that  temptation, 
to  vanity  (if  it  were  any) ;  but  am  so  far  from  finding  it  any 
pleasure,  that  it  only  makes  me  run  faster  from  the  place  till  I 
get  (as  it  were)  out  of  sight-shot.  Democritus  relates,  and  in  such 
a  manner  as  if  he  gloried  in  the  good-fortune  and  commodity  ot 
it,  that  when  he  came  to  Athens,  nobody  there  did  so  much  as 
take  notice  of  him  ;  and  Epicurus  lived  there  very  well,  that  is, 
lay  hid  many  years  in  his  gardens,  so  famous  since  that  time, 
with  his  friend  Metrodorus  ;  after  whose  death,  making  in  one 
of  his  letters  a  kind  commemoration  of  the  happiness  which  they 
two  had  enjoyed  together,  he  adds  at  last,  that  he  thought  it  no 
disparagement  to  those  qualifications  of  their  life,  that,  in  the 
midst  of  the  most  talked-of  and  talking  country  in  the  world,  they 
had  lived  so  long,  not  only  without  fame,  but  almost  without 
being  heard  of     And  yet,  within  a  few  years  afterward,  there 


42  1M:C0L  LECTIONS    OF 

wore  no  two  names  of  men  more  known,  or  more  generally  eele- 
bralcd.  If  we  engage  into  a  large  acquaintance,  and  various 
familiarities,  we  set  open  our  gates  to  the  invaders  of  most  of  our 
time  ;  we  expose  our  life  to  a  quotidian  ague  of  frigid  imperti- 
nence, wliieh  would  make  a  wise  man  tremble  to  think  of.  Now, 
as  for  being  known  much  by  sight,  and  pointed  at,  1  can  not  com- 
prehend the  honor  that  lies  in  that.  Whatsoever  it  be,  every 
mountebank  has  it  more  than  the  best  orator,  and  the  hangman 
more  than  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  a  city.  Every  creature  has 
it,  both  of  nature  and  art,  if  it  be  anywise  extraordinary.  It  was 
as  often  said,  This  is  that  Bucephalus,  or.  This  is  that  Iricitatus, 
when  they  were  led  prancing  through  the  streets,  as.  This  is  thut 
Alexander,  or,  This  is  that  Domitian  ;  and  truly  for  the  latter,  I 
take  Incitatus  to  have  been  a  much  more  honorable  beast  than 
his  master,  and  more  deserving  the  consulship  than  he  the  empire. 

"  I  love  and  commend  a  true,  good  fame,  because  it  is  the 
shadow  of  virtue  ;  not  that  it  doth  any  good  to  the  body  which  it 
accompanies,  but  it  is  an  efficacious  shadow,  and  like  that  of  St. 
Peter,  cures  the  diseases  of  others.  The  best  kind  of  glory,  no 
doubt,  is  that  which  is  reflected  from  honesty,  such  as  is  the  glory 
of  Cato  and  Aristides ;  but  it  was  painful  to  them  both,  and  is 
seldom  beneficial  to  any  man  while  he  lives.  AA'hat  it  is  to  him 
after  his  death,  I  can  not  say,  because  I  love  not  philosophy 
merely  notional  and  conjectural,  and  no  man  who  has  made  the 
experiment  has  been  so  kind  as  to  come  back  to  inform  us.  Upon 
the  whole  matter,  I  account  a  person  who  has  a  moderate  mind 
and  fortune,  and  lives  in  the  conversation  of  two  or  three  agreeable 
friends,  with  little  commerce  in  the  world  besides,  who  is  esteemed 
well  enough  by  his  few  neighbors  that  know  him,  and  is  truly  irre- 
proachable by  any  body  ;  and  so,  after  a  healthful  quiet  life,  be- 
fore the  great  inconveniences  of  old  age,  goes  more  silently  out  of 
it  than  he  came  in  (for  I  would  not  have  him  so  much  as  cry  in 
his  exit)  ;  this  innocent  deceiver  of  the  world,  as  Horace  calls 
him,  this  rauta  persona,  I  take  to  have  been  more  happy  in  his 
part  than  the  greatest  actors  that  fill  the  stage  with  show  and 
noise,  nay,  even  than  Augustus  himself,  who  asked  with  his  last 
breath,  whether  '  he  had  not  played  his  farce  very  well  ?'  " 

We  find  another  graceful  bit  of  autobiography  in  an  Essay 
addressed  to  Evelyn,  and  called  "  The  Garden  :" 

"  I  never  had  any  other  desire  so  strong  and  so  like  to  covet- 


A    LITERARY    LIFJE.  43 

ousness,  as  that  one  which  I  have  had  always,  that  I  might  be 
master  at  last  of  a  small  house  and  large  garden,  with  very- 
moderate  conveniences  joined  to  them,  and  there  dedicate  the 
remainder  of  my  life  only  to  the  cultui'e  of  them  and  study  of 
nature  ; 

"  And  there  (with  no  design  beyond  my  wall),  whole  and  enth'e  to  lie. 
In  no  unactive  ease  and  no  unglorious  poverty ; 

or,  as  Virgil  has  said,  shorter  and  better  for  me,  that  I  might 
there 

"  '  Studiis  florere  ignobilis  oti.' 

"  (Although  I  could  wish  that  he  had  rather  said,  '  nobilis  oti,' 
when  he  spoke  of  his  own).  But  several  accidents  of  my  ill-for- 
tune have  disappointed  me  hitherto,  and  do  still  of  that  felicity  ; 
for  though  I  have  made  the  first  and  hardest  step  to  it  by  aban- 
doning all  ambitions  and  hopes  in  this  world,  and  by  retiring 
from  the  noise  of  all  business,  and  almost  company,  yet  I  stick 
still  in  the  inn  of  a  hired  house  and  garden,  among  weeds  and 
rubbish  ;  and  without  that  pleasantest  work  of  human  industry, 
the  improvement  of  something  which  we  call  (not  very  properly, 
but  yet  we  call)  our  own.  I  am  gone  out  from  Sodom,  but  I 
am  not  yet  arrived  at  my  little  Zoar.  0  let  me  escape  thither 
(is  it  not  a  little  one?)  and  my  soul  shall  live.  I  do  not  look 
back  yet,  but  I  have  been  forced  to  stop  and  make  too  many 
halts.  You  may  wonder,  Sir  (for  this  seems  a  little  too  extrava- 
gant and  pindarical  for  prose),  what  I  mean  by  all  this  preface  ; 
it  is  to  let  you  know  that  though  I  have  missed,  like  a  chemist, 
my  great  end,  yet  I  account  my  affections  and  endeavors  M'^ell 
rewarded  by  something  that  I  have  met  with,  by  the  bye,  which 
is,  that  they  have  procured  to  me  some  part  in  your  kindness 
and  esteem." 

Here  is  a  fine  passage  from  the  Essay  "  Of  Solitude  :" 
*  *  *  "  Happy  had  it  been  for  Hannibal,  if  adversity  could 
have  taught  him  as  much  wisdom  as  was  learned  by  Scipio  from 
the  highest  prosperities.  This  would  be  no  wonder,  if  it  were  as 
truly  as  it  is  colorably  and  wittily  said  by  Monsieur  de  Montaigne, 
'  That  ambition  itself  might  teach  us  to  love  solitude  ;  there  is 
nothing  that  does  so  much  hate  to  have  companions.'  It  is  true 
it  loves  to  have  its  elbows  free  ;  it  detests  to  have  company  on 


44  KKCULLKCTIUXS    OF 

oitlior  siilo  ;  but  it  tlclijrlils,  above  all  things,  in  a  train  beliiiul, 
ay,  and  a  cheer  too  before  it.  And  the  greatest  part  of  men  are 
so  far  iroin  tlie  opinion  of  that  noble  Roman,  that  if  they  chance 
to  be  at  any  time  without  company,  they  are  like  a  becalmed 
bhip  ;  they  never  move  but  by  the  wind  of  other  men's  breatli, 
and  have  no  oars  of  their  own  to  steer  withal." 

The  whole  Essay  "  Of  Liberty"  is  full  of  the  happiest  adapta- 
tions of  classical  examples  to  Cowley's  peculiar  views,  lie 
speedily  dismisses  the  public  side  of  the  question,  and  enlarges  on 
the  slavery  to  which  ambitious  men  (Catiline  unfortunate  in  his 
ambition,  Caesar  prosperous)  voluntarily  subject  themselves  in  the 
pursuit  of  their  object.  There  are  in  this  eloquent  discourse 
many  felicitous  translations  from  Cicero  and  Sallust,  which,  taken 
with  the  specimens  of  Anacreon  (which  my  readers  will  find 
further  on),  may  lead  us  to  lament  deeply  that  in  that  age  of 
translators,  Cowley  did  not  devote  his  cherished  leisure  to  ver- 
sions of  some  of  the  great  masters  of  antiquity,  especially  the 
orators  and  historians. 

I  prefer,  however,  to  give  an  extract  from  the  curious  fragment 
which  he  has  entitled,  "  On  the  Government  of  Oliver  Crom- 
well;"  a  strange  vision,  of  which  the  whole  tenor  is  strongly 
against  the  Great  Protector  ;  but  into  the  midst  of  which,  put,  it 
is  true,  into  the  mouth  of  a  bad  angel,  the  following  character  of 
Cromwell  is  introduced,  as  if  by  an  instinct  of  truth  and  candor 
which  the  writer  found  it  impossible  to  resist.  Hume  has  in- 
serted this  character  "  altered,"  as  he  says,  "  in  some  particulars," 
in  his  history.  Why  altered  ?  The  Scottish  historian  is  a  most 
clear  and  pleasant  narrator,  but  surely  he  does  not  pretend  to 
improve  Cowley's  prose.  I  give  it  from  the  original.  The 
spokesman  is  the  evil  angel  : 

"  And  pray,  countryman,"  said  he,  veiy  kindly  and  very  flat- 
teringly, "  for  I  would  not  have  you  fall  into  the  general  error  of 
the  world,  that  detests  and  decries  so  extraordinary  a  virtue,  what 
can  be  more  extraordinary  than  that  a  person  of  mean  birth,  no 
fortune,  no  eminent  qualities  of  body,  which  have  sometimes,  or 
of  mind  which  have  often,  raised  men  to  the  highest  dignities, 
should  have  the  courage  to  attempt,  and  the  happiness  to  succeed 
in  so  improbable  a  design  as  the  destruction  of  one  of  the  most 
ancient  and  most  solidly-founded  monarchies  upon  the  earth  ? 
that  he  should  have  the  power  or  boldness  to  put  his  Prince  and 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  45 

master  to  an  open  and  infamous  death  ;  to  banish  that  numerous 
and  strongly-allied  family  ;  to  do  all  this  under  the  name  and 
wages  of  a  Parliament ;  to  trample  upon  them  too  as  he  pleased, 
and  spurn  them  out  of  doors  when  he  grew  weary  of  them  ;  to 
raise  up  a  new  and  unheard-of  monster  out  of  their  ashes ;  to 
stifle  that  in  the  very  infancy,  and  set  up  himself  above  all 
things  that  ever  were  called  Sovereigns  in  England  ;  to  oppress 
all  his  enemies  by  arms,  and  all  his  friends  afterward  by  artifice  ; 
to  serve  all  parties  patiently  for  awhile,  and  to  command  them 
victoriously  at  last  ;  to  overrun  each  corner  of  the  three  nations, 
and  overcome  with  equal  facility  both  the  riches  of  the  south  and 
the  poverty  of  the  north  ;  to  be  feared  and  courted  by  all  foi-eign 
princes,  and  adopted  a  brother  to  the  gods  of  the  earth  ;  to  call 
together  Parliaments  with  a  word  of  his  pen,  and  scatter  them 
again  with  the  breath  of  his  mouth  ;  to  be  hourly  and  daily  peti- 
tioned that  he  would  please  to  be  hired  at  the  rate  of  two  mil- 
lions a-year  to  be  the  master  of  those  who  had  hired  him  before 
to  be  their  servant  ;  to  have  the  estates  and  lives  of  three  king- 
doms as  much  at  his  disposal  as  was  the  little  inheritance  of  his 
father,  and  to  be  as  noble  and  liberal  in  the  spending  of  them  ; 
and  lastly  (for  there  is  no  end  of  all  the  particulars  of  his  glory), 
to  bequeath  all  this  with  one  word  to  his  posterity  ;  to  die  with 
peace  at  home  and  triumph  abroad  ;  to  be  buried  among  kings 
and  with  more  than  regal  solemnity,  and  to  leave  a  name  behind 
him  not  to  be  extinguished  but  with  the  whole  world ;  which  as 
it  is  now  too  little  for  his  praises,  so  it  might  have  been  too  for 
his  conquests,  if  the  short  time  of  his  human  life  could  have  been 
stretched  out  to  the  extent  of  his  immortal  design." 

Such  is  Cowley  as  a  prose  writer.  And  yet  one  of  the  most 
accomplished  persons  whom  I  have  ever  known  assured  me  the 
other  day  that,  excepting  among  a  few  men  of  very  refined  taste, 
he  believed  the  Essays  to  be  little  read.  They  will  rise  in  de- 
mand soon  I  hope,  for  my  friend  Mr.  Willmott,  a  writer  deserv- 
edly popular,  has  praised  them  in  one  of  his  charming  volumes 
just  as  they  ought  to  be  praised.  It  would  be  difllcult  to  say 
more. 

The  poems  are  singularly  iinequal.  But  as  I  for  my  own  pri- 
vate recreation  am  wont  to  resort  to  such  innocent  gayeties  as 
the  fathers  of  song  have  bequeathed  to  us,  so  I  seldom  fail  to  pre- 
sent them  to  my  readers  ;  and  it  happens  that  this  philosopher, 


46  RECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

wliom  wi*  liave  seen  dt-aliiifr  with  hi^li  and  lolly  ihouplits,  des- 
canting like  a  hermit  on  the  joys  of  solitude  and  the  delif^hts  of 
the  country, — and  in  this  respect  his  odes  are  nothing  inferior  to 
his  Essays  ; — it  happens  tliat  this  identical  Cowley  hath  left  be- 
hind him  the  pleasantest  of  all  pleasant  ballads,  which  could 
hardly  have  been  produced  by  any  one  except  a  thorough  man 
of  the  world.  It  is  entitled  "  The  Chronicle,"  and  contains  a 
catalogue  of  all  the  fair  ladies  with  whom  he  had  at  dili'erent 
times  been  enamored.  Never  was  list  more  amusing.  It  abounds 
in  happy  trails, — especially  the  one,  which  tells  to  half  an  hour 
how  long  a  silly  beauty  may  hope  to  retain  the  heart  of  a  man 
of  sense.  The  expression  when  the  haughty  Isabella,  uncon- 
scious of  her  conquest,  and  marching  on  to  fresh  triumphs,  beats 
out  Susan  "  by  the  bye"  has  passed  into  one  of  those  proverbs, 
of  which  doubtless,  as  of  many  other  by-words,  they  who  use 
them  little  guess  the  origin. 

"  The  Chronicle"  was  written  two  hundred  years  ago.  Ladies, 
dear  ladies,  if  one  could  be  sure  that  no  man  would  open  this 
book,  if  we  were  altogether  in  (female)  parliament  assembled, 
without  a  single  male  creature  within  hearing,  might  we  not 
acknowledge  that  the  sex,  especially  that  part  of  it  formerly 
called  coquette,  and  now  known  by  the  name  of  flirt,  is  very  lit- 
tle altered  since  the  days  of  the  Merry  Monarch  ?  and  that  a 
similar  list  compiled  by  some  gay  bachelor  of  Belgravia  might, 
allowing  for  differences  of  custom  and  of  costume,  serve  very  well 
as  a  companion  to  Master  Cowley's  catalogue  ?  I  would  not 
have  a  man  read  this  admission  for  the  world. 

THE   CHRONICLE.— A   BALLAD. 

Margarita  first  possessed. 

If  I  remember  well,  my  breast, 

Margarita  first  of  all ; 
But  when  awhile  the  wanton  niaifl, 
With  my  restless  heart  had  played, 

Martha  took  the  flying  ball. 

Martha  soon  did  it  resign, 
To  the  beauteous  Catherine : 

Beauteous  Catherine  gave  place, 
(Though  loth  and  augry  she  to  part 
AVith  the  possession  of  my  heart  ) 

To  Eliza's  conqnciring  face. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  47 

Eliza  to  this  hour  might  reign, 
Had  she  not  evil  counsels  ta'en : 

Fundamental  laws  she  broke, 
And  still  new  favorites  she  chose, 
Till  up  in  arms  my  passions  rose. 

And  cast  away  her  yoke. 

Mary  then,  and  gentle  Anne, 
Both  to  reign  at  once  began ; 

Alternately  they  swayed, 
And  sometimes  Marj'  was  the  fair, 
And  sometimes  Anne  the  crown  did  wear. 

And  sometimes  both,  I  obeyed. 

Another  Mary  then  arose. 
Who  did  rigorous  laws  impose, 

A  mighty  tyrant  she ! 
Long,  alas!  should  I  have  been 
Under  that  iron-sceptered  queen, 

Had  not  Rebecca  set  me  free. 

When  fair  Rebecca  set  me  free, 
'Twas  then  a  golden  time  with  me, 

But  soon  those  pleasures  fled; 
For  the  gracious  princess  died. 
In  her  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 

And  Judith  reigned  in  her  stead. 

One  month  three  days  and  half  an  hour, 
Judith  held  the  sovereign  power: 

Wondrous  beautiful  her  face, 
But  so  weak  and  small  her  wit. 
That  she  to  govern  was  unfit. 

And  so  Susannah  took  her  place. 

But  when  Isabella  came, 
Armed  with  a  resistless  flame  ; 

By  the  artillery  of  her  eye, 
While  she  proudly  marched  about, 
Greater  conquests  to  find  out, 

She  beat  out  Susan,  by  the  bye. 

But  in  her  place,  I  then  obcj-cd 
Black-eyed  Bess,  her  viceroy-maid. 

To  whom  ensued  a  vacancy. 
Thousand  worse  passions  then  possessed. 
The  interregnum  of  my  breast, — 

Bl'ss  me  from  such  an  anareliy! 


48  KE COLLECTIONS    OF 

GoiUlo  Henrietta  flu'n, 

Aiul  A  third  Mary  noxt  began; 

Tlu'u  Joan  and  Jane,  and  Audrla, 
And  tlu-n  a  piL-tty  Thoniasine, 
And  then  another  Catherine, 

And  tiien  a  long  et  cetera. 

But  should  I  now  to  you  relate, 

The  strength  and  riches  of  their  stat«. 

The  powder,  patches,  and  the  pins, 
The  ribbons,  jewels,  and  the  rings, 
The  lace,  the  paint,  and  warlike  things, 

That  make  up  all  their  magazines. 

If  I  should  tell  the  politic  arts, 
To  take  and  keep  men's  hearts. 

The  letters,  embassies,  and  spies, 
The  frowns,  the  smiles,  the  flatteries, 
The  quarrels,  tears,  and  perjuries. 

Numberless,  nameless  mysteries  ! 

And  all  the  little  lime-twigs  laid, 
By  Machiavel  the  waiting-maid  ; 

I  more  voluminous  should  grow. 
Chiefly  if  I,  like  them  should  tell, 
All  change  of  weather  that  befell, 

Than  Hollinshed  or  Stowe. 

But  I  will  briefer  with  them  be, 
Since  few  of  them  were  long  with  me. 

An  higher  and  a  nobler  strain 
My  present  emi)ress  doth  claim, 
Heleonora  first  o'  the  name. 

Whom  God  grant  long  to  reign ! 

I  add  a  few  original  stanzas,  which  show  Cowley's  charac- 
teristic merits  and  defects ; — very  few,  since  I  must  find  room 
for  some  of  those  translations  from  Anacreon,  which  for  grace, 
spirit,  and  delicacy,  will  never  be  surpassed. 

OF  SOLITUDE. 

Hail,  old  patrician  trees,  so  gi-eat  and  good ! 
Hail,  ye  plebeian  underwood  ! 

Where  the  poetic  birds  rejoice, 
And  for  their  quiet  nests  and  plenteous  food, 

Pay  with  their  grateful  voice. 


ALITEHAEYLIFE.  49 

Here  let  me  careless  and  unthougbtfiil  Ij'ing, 
Hear  the  soft  winds  above  me  flying; 

With  all  their  wanton  boughs  dis{iute, 
And  the  more  tuneful  birds  to  both  replying, 

Nor  be  myself,  too,  mute. 

A  silver  stream  shall  roll  his  waters  near, 
Gilt  with  the  sunbeams  here  and  there, 

On  whose  enameled  bank  I'll  walk. 
And  see  how  prettily  they  smile, 

And  hear  how  prettily  they  talk. 

Ah !  wretched  and  too  solitary  he. 
Who  loves  not  his  own  company  I 

He'll  feel  the  weight  of  it  many  a  day, 
Unless  he  call  in  sin  or  vanity. 

To  help  to  bear  it  away. 


THE   GRASSHOPPER. 

From  Anacrcon. 

Happy  insect!  what  can  be 
In  happiness  compared  to  thee? 
Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 
The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine ! 
Nature  waits  upon  thee  still. 
And  thy  verdant  cup  doth  fill ; 
'Tis  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 
Nature's  self,  thy  Ganymede. 
Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing, 
Happier  than  the  happiest  king ! 
All  the  fields  which   thou  dost  see. 
All  the  plants  belong  to  thee ; 
All  that  summer  hours  produce. 
Fertile  made  with  early  juice  : 
Man  for  thee  doth  sow  and  plow. 
Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou ! 
Thou  dost  innocently  joy, 
Nor  dost  thy  luxury  destroy. 
The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee. 
More  harmonious  than  ho. 
Thee  country  hinds  with  gladness  hoar. 
Prophet  of  the  ripened  year ! 
Thee  Phoebus  loves  and  doth  inspire ; 
Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 
To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth, 
Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirlh, 
C 


50  HECHJL  LECTIONS    OF 

Happy  insect !  happy  llioii, 

Dost  ticithor  nge  nor  winter  know; 

But  wlien  tliou'st  drunk,  and  danced,  and  sung 

Tliy  till,  tlio  Howcry  leaves  among, 

(Voluptuous  and  wise  withal, 

E])icurcan  animal !) 

Sated  with  thy  summer  feast. 

Thou  rotir'st  to  endless  rest. 


DRINKING. 

From  Anacreo7i. 

The  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain, 
And  drinks  and  gapes  for  drink  again ; 
The  plants  suck  in  the  earth,  and  are 
With  constant  drinking  fresh  and  fair ; 
The  sea  itself,  which  one  would  think. 
Should  have  but  little  need  of  drink, 
Drinks  ten  thousand  rivers  up, 
So  filled  that  they  o'crflow  the  cup. 
The  busy  sun,  and  one  would  guess, 
By's  drunken  fiery  face,  no  less, 
Drinks  up  the  sea,  and  when  he's  done, 
The  moon  and  stars  drink  up  the  sun. 
They  drink  and  dance  by  their  own  light, 
They  drink  and  revel  all  the  night. 
Nothing  in  nature's  sober  found. 
But  an  eternal  health  goes  round. 
Fill  up  the  bowl  then,  fill  it  high ! 
Fill  all  the  glasses  there  !  for  why 
Should  every  creature  drink  but  I "? 
Why,  men  of  morals,  tell  me  why  1 

GOLD. 

From  Anacreoii. 

A  mighty  pain  to  love  it  is. 
And  'tis  a  pain  that  pain  to  miss; 
But  of  all  pain  the  greatest  pain, 
It  is  to  love,  and  love  in  vain. 
Virtue  now  nor  noble  blood, 
Nor  wit  by  love  is  understood. 
Gold  alone  does  passion  move, 
Gold  monopolizes  love! 
A  curse  on  her,  and  on  the  man, 
Who  this  traffic  first  began! 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  51 

A.  curse  on  him  who  found  the  ore  ! 
A  curse  on  him  who  digged  the  store  • 
A  curse  on  him  who  did  refine  it ! 
A  curse  on  him  who  first  did  coin  it ! 
A  curse,  all  curses  else  above, 
On  him  who  used  it  first  in  love ! 
Gold  begets  in  brethren  hate; 
Gold  in  families  debate ; 
Gold  does  friendship  separate ; 
Gold  does  civil  wars  create ; 
These  the  smallest  harms  of  it! 
Gold,  alas !  does  love  beget. 

I  can  not  conclude  without  a  word  of  detestation  toward  Sprat, 
who,  Goth  and  Vandal  that  he  was,  destroyed  Cowley's  familiar 
letters. 


C>2  li  E  C  O  li  L  E  C  T  1  O  N  S    OF 


V. 

'.       .     COMIC   POETS. 

J.    ANSTEY. 

My  acquaintance  with  "  The  Pleader's  Guide"  commenced 
some  five-and-forty  years  ago,  after  the  following  fashion. 

It  had  happened  to  me  to  make  one  of  a  large  Christmas  party 
in  a  large  countiy  mansion,  the  ladies  whereof  -were  assembled 
one  morning  dolefully  enough  in  an  elegant  drawing-room.  It 
was  what  sportsmen  are  pleased  to  call  "  a  fine  open  day ;" 
which,  being  interpreted  according  to  the  feminine  version,  means 
every  variety  of  bad  weather  of  which  our  climate  is  capable, 
excepting  frost.  Dirt,  intolerable  dirt,  it  always  means,  and  i-ain 
pretty  often.  On  the  morning  in  question,  it  did  not  absolutely 
rain,  it  only  mizzled  ;  but  the  clouds  hung  over  our  heads  in  a 
leaden  canopy,  threatening  a  down  pour  ;  and  all  the  signs  of  the 
earth  testified  to  the  foregone  deluge  that  had  already  confined  us 
to  the  house  until  our  patience  was  worn  to  a  thread.  Heavy 
drops  fell  from  the  eaves,  the  trees  in  the  park  were  dripping  from 
every  bough,  the  fallen  leaves  under  the  trees  dank  with  moisture, 
the  grass  as  wet  as  if  it  grew  in  a  ford,  the  gravel-walks  soft  and 
plashy,  the  carriage  drives  no  better  than  mud.  In  short,  it  was 
the  very  dismalest  weather  that  ever  answered  to  the  name  of 
"  a  fine  open  day  ;"  and  our  sportsmen  accordingly  had  all  sallied 
forth  to  enjoy  it,  some  to  join  Sir  John's  hounds,  some  to  a  great 
coursing  meeting  at  Streatley. 

As  we  stood  at  the  windows  bemoaning  our  imprisonment,  we 
saw  that  the  drizzle  was  fast  settling  into  steady  rain,  and  that 
there  was  no  more  chance  of  a  ride  on  horseback,  or  a  drive  in 
an  open  carriage,  than  of  the  exhilarating  walk  which  is  the 
proper  exercise  of  Christmas.  All  the  pets  about  the  park  sym- 
pathized in  our  afflictions.  The  deer  dropped  off  to  their  closest 
covert ;  the  pied  peacock,  usually  .so  stately  and  so  dignified  as  he 


A    LITERARY    LIFE,  53 

trailed  his  spotted  train  after  him,  when  he  came  to  the  terrace 
to  tap  at  the  window  for  his  dole  of  cake,  actually  sneaked  away, 
when  summoned,  in  pure  shame  at  his  draggled  tail ;  the  swans 
looked  wet  through.  The  whole  party  seemed  chilled  and  dis- 
mal, and  I  was  secretly  meditating  a  retreat  to  my  mother's 
dressing-room,  to  enjoy  in  quiet  a  certain  volume  of  "  Causes 
Celebres,"  which  I  had  abstracted  from  the  library  for  my  own 
private  solace,  when  every  body  was  startled  by  a  proposal  of  the 
only  gentleman  left  at  home  ;  a  young  barrister,  who  had  had 
sufficient  courage  to  confess  his  indifierence  to  field  sports,  and 
who  now,  observing  on  the  ennui  that  seemed  to  have  seized 
upon  the  party,  offered  to  use  his  best  efforts  to  enliven  us  by 
reading  aloud — by  reading  a  law-book.  Fancy  the  exclamations 
at  a  medicine  so  singularly  ill-adapted  to  the  disease  !  For  my 
own  part,  I  was  not  so  much  astonished.  I  suspected  that  the 
young  gentleman  had  got  hold  of  another  volume  of  my  dearly 
beloved  "  Causes  Celebres,"  and  was  about  to  minister  to  our  dis- 
content by  reading  a  French  Trial.  But  the  rest  of  the  party 
laughed  and  exclaimed,  and  were  already  so  much  aroused  by  the 
proposal,  that  the  cure  might  be  said  to  be  more  than  half  accom- 
plished, before  our  learned  teacher  opened  the  pages  of  "  The 
Pleader's  Guide." 

I  wish  I  could  communicate  to  my  extracts  the  zest  that  his 
selections  derived  from  his  admirable  reading,  and  from  the 
humorous  manner  in  which  he  expounded  the  mystery  of  the 
legal  phrases,  which  I  shall  do  my  best  to  avoid,  not  to  overtask 
my  reader's  ingenuity. 

It  is  an  old  lawyer  instructing  a  young  one  : 

"  But  chiefly  thou,  dear  Job,  my  friend, 
My  kinsman,  to  my  ver.se  attend ; 
By  education  formed  to  .shine 
Conspicuous  in  the  pleading  line ; 
For  you,  from  five  years  old  to  twenty. 
Were  crammed  with  Latin  words  in  plenty  ; 
Were  bound  apprentice  to  the  Muses, 
And  forced  witli  hard  words,  blows,  and  bruises 
To  labor  on  poetic  ground, 
Dactyls  and  spondees  to  confound ; 
And  when  become  in  fictions  wise, 
In  Pagan  hi.storios  and  lies. 
Were  sent  to  dive  at  Granta's  cells, 
For  truth  in  dialectic  wells; 


54  KKCOL LECTIONS    OF 

TIh'Vi"  duly  bouiul  for  four  years  more, 
To  ply  tho  philosopliic  oar, 
Puinls  metapliysiciil  to  moot, 
Chop  logic,  wrangle,  and  dispute  ; 
And  now,  by  Avr  tlie  most  ambitious 
or  all  tlie  sons  of  Bergersdicius, 
Present  the  law  with  all  the  knowledgo 
You  gathered  botli  at  sehool  and  college. 
Still  bent  on  adding  to  your  store 
The  graces  of  a  Pleader's  lore, 
And,  better  to  improve  your  taste. 
Are  by  your  parents'  fondness  placed 
Among  the  blest,  the  chosen  few, 
(Blest,  if  their  hapjjiness  they  knew,) 
Who,  for  three  hundred  guineas  paid 
To  some  great  master  of  the  trade, 
Have,  at  his  rooms,  by  special  favor, 
His  leave  to  use  their  best  endeavor. 
By  drawing  pleas  from  nine  till  four, 
To  earn  him  twice  three  hundred  more; 
And  after  dinner  maj'  repair 
To  'foresaid  rooms,  and  then  and  there 
Have  'foresaid  leave  from  five  till  ten, 
To  draw  the  aforesaid  pleas  again." 

Then  he  favors  his  pupil  with  a  bit  of  his  own  history,  which 
seems  to  me  capital : 

"  Whoe'er  has  drawn  a  special  plea, 
Has  lieard  of  old  Tom  Tewlcsbury ; 
Deaf  as  a  post  and  thick  as  mustard, 
He  aimed  at  wit,  and  bawled  and  blustered, 
And  died  a  Nisi  prius  leader — 
That  genius  was  my  special  pleader. 
That  great  man's  office  I  attended. 
By  Hawk  and  Buzzard  recommended  ; 
Attorneys  both  of  wondrous  skill 
To  pluck  the  goose  and  drive  the  quill. 
Three  years  I  sat  his  smoky  room  in, 
Pens,  paper,  pounce  and  ink  consuming; 
The  fourth,  when  Essoign  day  begun, 
Joyful  I  hailed  the  auspicious  sun. 
Bade  Tewksbury  and  clerk  adieu; 
♦Purification  Eighty-two 


*  The  Purification  of  the  Virgin  Mary  is  one  of  the  return  days  of  Hilary 
Term. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  65 

Of  both  I  washed  my  hands  ;  and  though 

With  nothing  for  my  cash  to  show 

But  precedents,  so  scrawled  and  blurred 

I  scarce  could  read  one  single  word, 

Nor  in  my  book  of  commonplace 

One  feature  of  the  law  could  trace, 

Save  Buzzard's  nose  and  visage  thin 

And  Hawk's  deficiency  of  chin, 

Which  I,  while  lolling  at  my  ease. 

Was  wont  to  draw  instead  of  pleas ; 

Yet  chambers  I  eqnipt  complete, 

Hired  books,  made  friends,  and  gave  to  eaL 

If,  haply,  to  regale  my  friends  on, 

My  mother  sent  a  haunch  of  ven'son, 

I  most  respectfully  entreated 

The  choicest  company  to  eat  it ; 

To  wit,  old  Buzzard,  Hawk,  and  Crow, 

Item,  Tom  Thornback,  Sliark,  and  Co., 

Attorneys  all,  as  keen  and  staunch 

As  e'er  devoured  a  client's  haunch  ; 

Nor  did  I  not  their  clerks  invito 

To  taste  said  venison  hashed  at  night ; 

For  well  I  knew  that  hopeful  fry 

My  rising  merit  would  descry, 

The  same  litigious  course  pursue, 

And,  when  to  fish  of  prey  they  grew, 

By  love  of  food  ai\d  contest  led. 

Would  haunt  the  spot  where  once  they  fed. 

Thus  having  with  due  circumspection 

Formed  my  professional  connection. 

My  desk  with  precedents  I  strewed, 

Turned  critic,  danced,  or  penned  an  ode, 

Studied  the  ton,  became  a  free 

And  easy  man  of  gallantry  ; 

But  if,  while  capering  at  my  glass, 

Or  toying  with  some  favorite  lass, 

1  heard  the  aforesaid  Hawk  a-coming, 

Or  Buzzard  on  the  staircase  humming, 

At  once  the  fair  angelic  maid 

Into  my  coal-hole  I  conveyed ; 

At  once,  with  serious  look  profound. 

And  eyes  commercing  witli  the  ground, 

I  seemed  as  one  estranged  to  sleep. 

And  fixed,  in  cogitation  deep. 

Sate  motionless ;  while  in  my  hajid  I 

Held  my  Doctrina  Placitandi. 

And  though  I  never  read  a  i)agc  in  't, 

Thanks  to  that  shrewd,  well-judging  agent, 


56  KK  COL  LECTIONS    OF 

My  sister's  husband,  Mr.  Sliark, 
Soon  fjot  six  pupils  and  a  cloriv. 
Five  pupils  were  my  stint,  tlie  other 
I  toolv  to  compliment  his  mother." 

This  piece  of  autobiography  seems  to  nie  admirable  for  its  neat- 
ness and  point,  its  hnmor  and  its  good-humor.  The  termination 
of  the  poem  is  a  trial  of  matchless  pleasantry  between  John-a- 
GuU  and  John-a-Gudgeon,  for  an  assault  at  an  election.  I  trans- 
cribe the  commencement  and  part  of  the  opening  speech,  a  piece 
of  legal  comedy  which  will  make  its  way  even  with  the  least 
learned  reader  : — 


THE  TRIAL.* 
John-a-Gl'll,         ) 

at  St.  >  In  Trespass. 

JOHN-A-GuDGEON.  ) 

For  the  Plaintiff,  Mr.  Counselor  Bothek'um. — For  the  Defendant,  Mr. 
Counselor  Bore'um. — Mr.  Bother'um  opens  the  pleadings.  His  speech  at 
length. 


"  I  rise  with  pleasure,  I  assure  j^e, 
With  transport  to  accost  a  jury, 
Of  your  known  conscientious  feeling. 
Candor  and  honorable  dealing. 
From  Middlesexf  discreetly  chosen, 
(A  worthy  and  an  upright  dozen.) 
This  action,  gentlemen,  is  brought. 
By  John-a-Gudgcon  for  a  tort — " 

Our  French  will  serve  us  for  this  legal  word,  which  is,  I  sup- 
pose, old  Norman  French,  pronounced  English-wise,  but  signifying 
a  wrong,  as  one  might  guess  from  the  modern  tongue. 

"  By  John-a-Gudgeon  for  a  tort ; 
The  pleadings  state  'that  John-a-GulI, 
With  envy,  wrath,  and  malice  full. 
With  swords,  knives,  sticks,  staves,  fist,  and  bludgeon, 
Beat,  bruised,  and  wounded  John-a-Gudgeon.'  " 

This  prodigious  accumulation  of  weapons,  as  well  as  the 
"  twelve  pots,  twelve  mugs,"  and  so  forth,  to  which  we  are 
coming,  is  an  imitation  of  the  real  law  fictions  and  endless  repe- 

*  As  taken  by  an  eminent  short-hand  writer. 

t  Middlesex.  This  being  an  election  affray,  the  venue  is  supposed  to 
have  been  changed  upon  the  usual  affidavit,  for  the  sake  of  a  more  fair  and 
impartial  trial  before  a  Middlesex  jury. 


A    LITERAEY    LIFE,  57 

litions  which  result  from  the  circumstance  of  nothing  being  al- 
lowed to  be  proven  at  a  trial  that  has  not  been  named  in  the  in- 
dictment, whereas  there  is  no  rule  to  compel  the  proof  of  more 
than  the  counsel  think  essential  to  the  case  ;  it  is,  therefore,  really 
usual  to  provide  against  all  contingencies  by  enumerating  far 
more  particulars  than  are  likely  to  be  brought  forward.  Lawyers 
will  best  feel  the  satire,  but  all  can  enjoy  the  fun  : — 

"  First  count's  for  that  with  divers  jugs, 
To  wit,  twelve  pots,  twelve  cups,  twelve  mugs, 
Of  certain  vulgar  drink,  called  toddy. 
Said  Gull  did  sluice  said  Gudgeon's  body. 
The  second  count's  for  other  toddy, 
Thrown  by  said  Gull  on  Gudgeon's  body ; 
To  wit,  his  gold-laced  hat  and  hair  on, 
And  clothes  which  he  had  then  and  there  on : 
To  wit,  twelve  jackets,  twelve  surtouts. 
Twelve  pantaloons,  twelve  pair  of  boots, 
Which  did  thereby  much  discompose 
Said  Gudgeon's  mouth,  eyes,  ears,  and  nose, 
Back,  stomach,  neck,  thighs,  feet  and  toes ; 
By  which  and  other  wrongs  unheard  of, 
His  clothes  were  spoilt  and  life  despaired  of. 
To  all  these  counts  the  plea  I  find, 
Is  son  assault  and  issue's  joined." 

Here  our  French  helps  us  again,  and  the  common  expression 
of  joining  issue.  Now  for  Counselor  Bother' um's  history  of  the 
battle.     The  watery  names  are  very  happy  : 

"  Such,  gentlemen,  is  word  for  word, 
The  story  told  on  this  record. 
The  fray  was  at  a  feast  or  revel. 
At  Toadland,  on  the  Bedford  Level, 
Given,  as  was  usual  at  elections. 
By  Gudgeon  to  his  Fen  connections. 
They'd  had  a  meeting  at  tlie  '  Swan' 
The  day  before  the  poll  began. 
And  hence  adjourned  it  to  make  merry 
With  Mr.  Coot,  who  keeps  the  '  Ferry.' 
Now  John-a-GuU,  wlio  tlirusts  his  no.sc 
Wherever  John-a-Gudgoon  goes, 
To  this  same  feast,  without  suspicion. 
Unasked,  it  seems,  had  gained  admission. 
Coot  liad  just  fini.shcd  an  oration. 
And  Gudgeon,  with  much  approbation. 


58  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Whs  singing  nn  election  ballad, 

Penned  by  the  ingenious  Doctor  Mallard, 

(That  orthodox  and  learned  writer. 

Who  bids  so  fairly  for  a  miter ;) 

When  Gull,  who  hoard  this  song  or  sonnet, 

With  Mr.  Gudgeon's  comments  on  it ; 

This  Gull,  whose  very  name  denoted 

Tho  character  for  whom  ho  voted. 

Flourished  his  knuckles  in  derision, 

And,  with 'much  promptness  of  decision. 

Began  to  pommel  and  belabor 

The  short  ribs  of  his  peaceful  neighbor ; 

But  first  with  tweaks  assailed  his  nose, 

And  interspersed  said  tweaks  w'ith  blows. 

Gudgeon  explained,  and  Gull  recourse  had 

To  other  tweaks  like  tweak  aforesaid. 

Heaven  knows  a  milder,  gentler  creature 

Never  was  seen  in  human  nature 

Than  the  forbearing  and  well-judging, 

Discreet  and  gentle  John-a-Gudgeon ! 

And,  gentlemen,  there's  no  man's  face  is 

Better  received  at  all  your  races. 

Wells,  mouths  and  water-drinking  places ; 

Was  alderman,  and  mayor  elect, 

Once  had  the  honor  to  be  pricked 

For  sheriff,  which  important  station 

He  gained  without  solicitation. 

No  doubt  his  lordship  recognizes 

The  coat  he  had  on  at  assizes, 

A  velveret,  genteel  and  neat, 

With  tabby  lined  and  frogs  complete, 

Made  for  Squire  Gudgeon's  wedding  ball. 

When  first  he  came  to  Webfoot  Hall, 

An  ancient  seat  in  the  Isle  of  Ely, 

Where  all  the  Gudgeons  live  genteelly ; 

AVliich  coat  so  trimmed,  so  frogged,  said  Gull 

Did  spoil,  besmear,  snd  disannul 

With  the  most  villainous  libations 

Of  the  most  vile  of  vile  potations ; 

For  proof  we'll  call  Gull's  worthy  friend. 

Who  keeps  a  school  at  Toadland's  end  ; 

One  Simon  Trout,  a  pious  pastor, 

And  Dr.  Tench,  who  spread  the  plaster ; 

And  Fanner  Chubb,  an  honest  yeoman. 

Who  speaks  the  truth  and  cares  for  no  man ; 

But  above  all,  to  prove  our  case. 

We'll  show  you  Mr.  Gudgeon's  face, 

AVhere  every  injured  feature  pleads 

'Gainst  John-a-Gull's  atrocious  deeds; 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  59 

What  ftcts,  what  species  of  excuse, 

My  brother  Bore'um  will  produce, 

What  case  he'll  make,  and  how  mahitaiu 

His  plea  of  son  assault  demesne, 

Wise  as  he  looks,  you  may  rely  on't, 

He  knows  no  more  than  his  own  client. 

'Tis  for  you,  gentlemen,  to  say 

AVhat  damage  John-a-Gull  shall  pay ; 

'Tis  in  your  wisdom,  gentlemen,  to  pull 

So  wide  the  purse-strings  of  this  factious  Gull, 

That  he  no  more  may  triumph  and  parade 

The  streets  of  Cambridge  in  a  blae  cockade,"  &c.  &c. 

Here  follows  a  grand  and  solemn  peroration,  such  as  may  ollen 
be  heard  in  a  court  of  justice,  and  read  in  the  "  Times.'' 

Then  comes  a  most  graphic  and  dramatic  examination  of  wit- 
nesses. Simon  Trout,  dissenting  minister  and  schoolmaster,  is 
examined  by  Mr.  Bother'um,  and  cross-examined  by  Mr.  Bore'um. 
At  first  Mr.  Trout  ivill  speak  according  to  hearsay,  what  Chubb 
told  him,  and  Tench  ;  there  is  no  keeping  him  to  what  he  him- 
self heard  and  saw,  and  Bother'um  and  Bore'um  wrangle  over 
him  accordingly.  At  last,  in  the  middle  of  much  rambling,  he 
swears  point  blank  to  the  assault  committed  by  Gull,  and  then 
Bother'um,  feeling  him  to  be  a  dangerous  witness,  says  : — 

Both.     Come,  Sir,  we  won't  detain  you.     Gull, 

You're  sure,  smote  Gudgeon  on  the  skull  1 
Trout.  He  did. 
Bore.     Stay,  Mr.  AVhat-dy'e-call'era, 

You  say  you  saw  Gull  bruise  and  maul  him  1 
Trout.  Yes. 
Bore.     And  you  never  go  to  dinners 

To  feast  with  publicans  and  sinners ! 

What !  was  the  bludgeon  pretty  thick  1 
Trovt.  I  can  not  say  I  saw  the  stick. 
Bore.     Stay,   Sir,  I  think  that  you're  a  teacher ! 

and  so  forth  ;  and,  in  a  dextrous  cross-examination,  he  extorts 
the  admission  that  there  had  been  some  provocation,  and  that  it 
merged  into  a  regular  fight.  Then  we  have  the  medical  witness, 
Dr.  Tench,  surgeon  and  apothecary,  admirably  technical,  trans- 
lating the  commonest  word  into  Latin  : — 

"  The  fauces  in  a  .sad  condition. 
Between  the  nares  no  partition," 


60  KECOLLKCTIONS    OF 

(The  iTsult  o['  the  two  twoaks) 

"  But  bdtli  so  joined  into  conjunction, 
The  olftictories  declined  tlieir  function ; 
Some  teotb  were  broke,  and  some  were  lost. 
The  incisores  suffered  most ; 
Much  mischief  done  to  the  molarcs — 
And  what  a  very  strange  affair  is, 
Not  the  least  symptom  could  I  see 
Of  dentcs  sapiential." 

The  Doctor  is  dismissed,  and  Farmer  Chubb  appears,  at  first  a 
stohd,  stupid  witness,  from  whom  it  is  dijfficult  to  extort  a  word, 
and  who  has  a  mind  to  break  away  : — 

"  My  lord,  I  wishes  to  be  going. 
For  'tis  a  charming  time  for  sowing." 

(Lent  assizes,  I  presume  !) 

BotA.     Stay,  Mr.  Chubb ;  speak  out,  Sir,  do ! 

Did  Gull  beat  Gudgeon  1     Is  that  true  ? 
Chubb.  Beat  him !     He  beat  him  black  and  blue. 

I  never  see'd  a  prettier  fight. 

So  full  of  malice  like,  and  spite. 
Bore.    A  fight !     Ho !  ho  !  the  truth's  come  out, 

A  fair  set-to — a  boxing  boutl 
Both.    And  this  you  positively  swear  1 
Chitbb.  Ay,  sure  ;  why  Simon  Trout  was  there. 

And  then  it  appears  that  the  schoolmaster  had  done  all  he 
coidd  to  promote  the  afiray,  and  had  endeavored  to  persuade  Chubb 
to  act  as  bottle-holder  to  one  of  the  parties.  Chubb  is  dismissed, 
and  Bore'um  makes  a  most  characteristic  defense — cites  half-a- 
dozen  books — upon  which  Bother'um  cites  somewhere  about  a 
score  ;  they  hurl  argument  against  argument,  case  against  case, 
and  get  into  a  prodigious  fury.     Bore'um  vows — 

'■  If  all  that  I've  advanced  this  day 

Be  not  good  law,  my  lord,  and  sound 

As  e'er  was  broached  on  legal  ground, 

Soon  as  to  chambers  I  return 

All  my  black-letter  books  I'll  bum." — 

"  Hold,  hold,"  (quoth  Bother'um)  "  'twould  be  cruel 

To  turn  your  fixtures  into  fuel, 

Those  precious  tomes  with  cobwebs  si)read, 

Which  sleep  so  peaceful  o'er  your  head ; 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  61 

Ere  yet  that  sentence  is  decreed  'em, 
Do  read  'em,  Master  Bore'um,  read  'em !" 

After  which  piece  of  malice  both  parties  suddenly  cool  down. 

Both  lovingly  agreed  at  once  to  draw 

A  special  case,  and  save  the  point  in  law, 

That  so  the  battle,  neither  lost  or  won, 

Continued,  ended,  and  again  begim, 

Might  still  survive,  and  other  suits  succeed 

For  future  heroes  of  the  gown  to  lead. 

And  future  bards  in  loftier  verse  to  plead. 

Although  I  am  copying  from  the  sixth  edition,  this  pleasant 
poem  is  now  so  scarce,  that  after  a  long  search  in  London,  I 
fairly  gave  up  all  hopes  of  succeeding,  and  only  obtained  the 
volume  at  Bath,  the  birth-place  of  the  author,  who  was  the  son 
of  Christopher  Anstey,  the  well-known  writer  of  the  Bath  Guide. 

The  law  of  this  book  is  said  to  be  excellent.  It  is  recorded  of 
I  know  not  what  great  legal  luminary,  that  the  only  poem  he 
ever  read  in  the  course  of  his  life  was  "  The  Pleader's  Guide," 
and  that  he  had  the  triumph  and  satisfaction  of  discovering  a 
flaw  therein. 


62  K  E  0  O  L  L  E  C  T 1  O  N  S    O  F 


VI. 

AMERICAN  POETS. 

IIENIIY    WADSWORTII    LONGFELLOW. 

The  representatives  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  across  the  Atlan- 
tic— our  cousins  I  do  not  know  how  many  degrees  removed — 
have  in  no  way  better  proved  their  kindred  than  by  the  growing 
pith  and  substance  of  their  literature.  Of  such  prose  writers  as 
Channing,  Norton,  Prescott,  Ware,  Cooper,  and  Washington  Ir- 
ving, together  with  the  many  who,  where  there  are  such  leaders, 
are  sure  to  press  close  upon  their  footsteps,  any  countiy  might  be 
proud.  But  one  want  they  had  ;  and  although  not  particularly 
fond  of  pleading  guilty  to  deficiencies  of  any  sort,  they  confessed 
it  themselves  :  the  want  of  a  great  poet.  Of  elegant  versifiers 
there  was  no  lack.  I  doubt  if,  for  the  fifty  years  that  preceded 
the  first  French  revolution,  England  herself  had  been  better  ofl' 
in  the  way  of  smooth  and  polished  rhyme.  But  they  are  an  am- 
bitious race,  these  transatlantic  kinsmen  of  ours,  commonly  called 
Americans  ;  they  like  to  have  the  best  that  can  be  obtained  in 
every  department,  and  they  do  not  dislike  to  vaunt  of  their  pos- 
sessions ;  and  now  that  their  great  literary  want  is  supplied  in 
the  person  of  Heniy  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  they  may  glorify 
themselves  to  their  heart's  content,  certain  that  every  lover  of 
poetry,  whether  born  under  the  red-cross  banner  of  Q-ueen  Victo- 
ria, or  the  stripes  and  stars  of  the  States,  will  join  the  general 
All  Hail  : 

I  do  not  know  a  more  enviable  reputation  than  Professor  Long- 
fellow has  won  for  himself  in  this  country — won  too  with  a  ra- 
pidity seldom  experienced  by  our  own  native  poets.  The  terseness 
of  diction  and  force  of  thought  delight  the  old  ;  the  grace  and 
melody  enchant  the  young  ;  the  unafiected  and  all-pervading  piety 
satisfy  the  serious  ;  and  a  certain  slight  touch  of  mysticism  carries 


A     LITER  AKY     LIFE.  63 

the  imaginative  reader  fairly  ofl^  liis  feet.  For  my  own  part,  I 
confess,  not  only  to  the  being  captivated  by  all  these  qualities 
(mysticism  excepted),  but  to  the  farther  fact  of  yielding  to  the 
charm  of  certain  lines,  I  can  not  very  well  tell  why,  and  walking 
about  the  house  repeating  to  myself  such  figments  as  this  : 

"  I  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars," 

as  if  I  were  still  eighteen.  I  am  not  sure  that  this  is  not  as 
great  a  proof  of  the  power  of  the  poet  as  can  be  given. 

In  speaking  of  Professor  Longfellow's  popularity  in  England,  I 
refer  chiefly  to  the  smaller  pieces,  which  form,  however,  the 
larger  portion  of  his  collected  works.  The  "  Spanish  Student," 
although  beautifully  written,  is  too  little  dramatic,  and  above  all, 
too  Spanish  for  our  national  taste  ;  and  "  Evangeline,"  with  its 
experiments  in  English  versification,  and  its  strange  union  of  a 
semi-ideal  passion  with  the  most  real  and  positive  of  all  Dutch 
painting,  must  be  regarded  as  still  upon  its  trial. 

The  shorter  poems  are  enough.  I  would  fain  have  enriched 
my  pages  with  the  "  Excelsior"  and  the  "  Psalm  of  Life,"  but 
they  have  been  long  enough  printed  to  have  found  their  way  to 
many  hearths  and  hearts.  I  prefer,  therefore,  quoting  from  the 
later  volumes,  which  have  only  recently  become  known  in  Eng- 
land, although  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  inserting  the 
noble  tribute  to  the  painter  and  the  bard,  which  makes  the  glory 
of  the  stirring  lyric  on  Nuremberg. 

NUREMBERG. 

In  the  valley  of  the  PegTiitz,  whore  across  broarl  meadow-lands 
Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nuremberg  the  ancient  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint  old  town  of  art  and  song, 
INIemorics haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like  the  rooks  that  round  them  throng; 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  emperors,  rough  and  bold, 
Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time-defying,  centuries  old  ; 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted,  in  their  uncouth  rhyme. 
That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its  hand  through  every  cliinc. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with  many  an  iron  band, 
Stand.s  tjie  mighty  linden,  planted  by  Queen  Cunigunda's  hand: 


G-l  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  wliero  in  old  h  roic  days 
Sat  the  jwet  Melcliior  singing  Kaiser  Maximilian's  praise. 

Everywhere  I  see  around  ine  rise  the  wondrous  world  of  art — 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  standing  in  the  common  mart; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways,  saints  and  bishops  carved  in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to  our  own. 

In  the  church  of  Sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrined  his  holy  dust, 

And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from  age  to  age  their  trust ; 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a  pix  of  sculpture  rare. 
Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising  through  the  painted  air. 

Here,  when  art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple  reverent  heart. 
Lived  and  labored  Albrecht  Diirer,  the  Evangelist  of  Art. 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with  busy  hand. 
Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for  the  Better  Land. 

Emigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tombstone  where  he  lies ; 
Dead  he  is  not — but  departed — for  the  artist  never  dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine  seems  more  fair 
That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that  he  once  has  breathed  its  air ! 

Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately,  these  obscure  and  dismal  lanes 
Walked  of  yore  the  Master- Singers,  chanting  rude  poetic  strains. 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs  came  they  to  the  friendly  guild. 
Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as  in  spouts  the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  too  the  mystic  rhyme. 
And  the  smith  his  iron  measures  hammered  to  the  anvil's  chime ; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom  makes  the  flowers  of  poesy  bloom 
In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tissues  of  the  loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate  of  the  gentle  craft, 
Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in  huge  folios  sung  and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a  nicely  sanded  floor, 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face  above  the  door ; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  Adam  Puschman's  song, 

As  the  old  man,  gray  and  dove-like,  with  his  great  beard  white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  to  drown  his  cark  and  care, 
Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the  master's  antique  chair. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  65 

Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendor,  and  before  my  dreamy  eye 
Wave  these  mingUng  shapes  and  figures,  like  a  faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers  win  for  thee  the  world's  regard, 
But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Diirer,  and  Hans  Sachs  thy  cobbler-bard. 

Thus,  0  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer  from  a  region  far  away 

As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards,  sang  in  thought  his  careless  lay  ; 

Gathering  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as  a  floweret  of  the  soil, 
The  nobility  of  labor,  the  long  pedigree  of  toil. 


THE   OPEN  WINDOW. 

The  old  house  by  the  lindens 

Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 
And  on  the  graveled  patliway 

The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I  saw  the  nursery  window 

Wide  open  to  the  air; 
But  the  faces  of  the  children 

They  were  no  longer  there. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 

Was  standing  by  the  door; 
He  looked  for  his  little  playmates 

Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens. 

They  played  not  in  the  hall; 
But  shadow  and  silence  and  sadness 

Were  hanging  over  all. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 

With  sweet  familiar  tone ; 
But  the  voices  of  the  children 

Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone. 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me 

He  could  not  understand 
Why  closer  in  mine, — ah,  closer  I — 

I  pressed  his  warm  soft  hand ! 

The  charming  touch  in  the  last  stanza  has  a  pathos  peculiar 
to  Professor  Longfellow.  The  next  poem  is  also  one  which,  if 
printed  anonymously,  we  should,  I  think,  be  ready  to  assign  to 
the  right  author. 


66  Iv  E  C  O  L  L  E  C  Tl  O  N  S    O  P 


TIIH   OLD   CLOCK   ON   THE    STAIRS. 

L  (.'toriiiic  ost  uno  ikmkIuIo,  dont  le  balancior  dit  ct  rcdit  sans  cessc  ces 
deux  mots  sculoiuent,  dans  le  silence  des  tonibeaux :  Toujouis— jamais ! 
Jamais — toujours ! — jaques  bridaine. 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 

Stands  the  old-fashioned  countrj'-seat. 

Across  its  antique  portico 

Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw ; 

And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 

An  ancient  time-piece  says  to  all : 

"  Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass: 
"  Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth. 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
As  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw. 
It  calmly  re^jeats  those  words  of  awe : 
"  Forever — never ! 
Never— forever !" 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 
His  great  flres  up  the  chimney  roared ; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  time-piece  never  ceased: 
"  Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played ; 
There  youths  and  maidens,  dreaming,  strayed ; 
0  precious  hours !     0  golden  prime 
And  afliuence  of  love  and  time ! 
Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold 
Those  hours  the  ancient  time-piece  told : 
"  Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  67 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding-night! 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  its  shroud  of  snow  ! 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair: 
"  Forever — never ! 
Never — forever  !" 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
Ah  !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by "? 
The  ancient  time-piece  makes  reply : 
"  Forever — never  ! 
Never — forever !" 

Never  here,  forever  there. 
Where  all  parting,  pain  and  care, 
And  death  and  time  shall  disappear! 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly  : 

"  Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 


TWILIGHT. 

The  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 

And,  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds, 
Flash  the  wild  caps  of  the  sea. 

But  in  the  fisherman's  cottage 
There  shines  a  ruddier  light. 

And  a  little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 

As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness. 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 

Is  passing  to  and  fro. 
Now  rising  to  the  ceiling. 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 


68  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

What  tale  do  tlic  roaring  ocean, 
And  the  night-wind  bleak  and  wild, 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 
Tell  to  that  little  child  1 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean 

And  the  night-wind  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother. 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek  1 


RESIGNATION. 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying. 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient !     These  severe  afllictious 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors 

Amid  these  earthly  damps, 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad  funereal  tancrs, 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  !    What  seems  so  is  transition ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  Elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  the  child  of  our  affection, 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  dotli  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion 

By  guardian  angels  led. 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day,  we  think  what  she  is  doing 
In  those  bright  realms  of  air ; 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  69 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 
Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her, 

For  when  with  rapture  wild. 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child ; 

But  a  fair  maiden  in  her  Father's  mansion 

Clothed  with  a  celestial  grace ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuoiis  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  can  not  be  at  rest, — 

We  will  be  patient  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing. 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 

I  add  one  simile  from  the  "  Address  to  a  Child  :'' 

By  what  astrology  of  fear  or  hope 

Dare  I  to  cast  thy  horoscope  ! 

Like  the  new  moon  thy  life  appears 

A  little  strip  of  silver-light. 

And,  widening  outward  into  night, 

The  shadowy  disk  of  future  years  ! 

And  yet,  upon  its  outer  rim, 

A  luminous  circle  faint  and  dim, 

And  scarcely  visible  to  us  here. 

Rounds  and  completes  the  perfect  sphere, 

A  prophecy  and  intimation, 

A  pale  and  feeble  adumbration, 

Of  the  great  world  of  light  that  lies 

Beyond  all  liuman  destinies  ! 

The  concluding  extract  has  a  stronger  recommendation  than 
any  that  I  can  give  ;  it  is  Mrs.  Browning's  lavorite  among  the 
poems  of  Longfellow  : 


70  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth  I  knew  not  where ; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air. 
It  fell  to  earth  I  knew  not  where ; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song  1 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow  still  unhroke; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  it  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

I  venture  to  add  an  anecdote  new  to  the  English  public. 

Professor  Longfellow's  residence  at  Cambridge,  a  picturesque 
old  wooden  house,  has  belonging  to  it  the  proudest  historical  as- 
sociations of  which  America  can  boast ;  it  was  the  head-quarters 
of  Washington,  One  night  the  poet  chanced  to  look  out  of  his 
window,  and  saw  by  the  vague  starlight  a  figure  riding  slowly 
past  the  mansion.  The  face  could  not  be  distinguished  ;  but  the 
tall  erect  person,  the  cocked  hat,  the  traditional  costume,  the 
often-described  white  horse,  all  were  present.  Slowly  he  paced 
before  the  house,  and  then  returned,  and  then  again  passed  by, 
after  which  neither  horse  nor  rider  were  seen  or  heard  of. 

Could  it  really  be  Washington  ?  or  was  it  some  frolic-mas- 
querader  assuming  his  honored  form  ?  For  my  part  I  hold 
firmly  to  the  ghostly  side  of  the  story,  so  did  my  informant,  also  a 
poet  and  an  American,  and  as  worthy  to  behold  the  specter  of 
the  illustrious  warrior,  as  Professor  Longfellow  himself.  I  can 
hardly  say  more. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  11 


VII. 

AUTHORS  SPRUNG  FROM  THE   PEOPLE. 


THOMAS    HOLCROFT. 


I  REMEMBER  Saying  one  day  to  a  woman  of  high  genius,  that 
a  mutual  friend  of  hers  and  mine  proposed  to  give  a  series  of 
lectures  on  authors  sprung  from  the  people,  from  the  masses,  as 
it  is  the  fashion  to  say  now-a-days,  and  her  replying  quickly  : 
"  Why  all  authors  who  are  worth  reading  are  sprung  from  the 
people  ; — it  is  the  well-born  who  are  the  exceptions."  And 
then  she  ran  through  a  bead  roll  of  great  names  from  Chaucer 
to  Burns  :  nevertheless  this  repartee  was  not  quite  right  ;  not  a 
whit  more  right  than  a  repartee  usually  is  ;  for  the  number  of 
educated  writers  must  always  preponderate.  But  still  the  class 
of  self-educated  writers  is  large,  increasingly  large  ;  and  truthful 
biographies  of  such  persons  must  always  be  among  the  most 
interesting  books  in  the  world,  as  showing  better  than  any  other 
books  the  development  and  growth  of  individual  minds. 

Mr.  Bamford's  "  Life  of  a  Radical,"  and  Mr.  Somerville's  ac- 
count of  his  own  career,  have  mnch  of  this  merit ;  but  the  most 
curious  of  all  these  memoirs  both  for  the  vicissitudes  of  the  story 
and  the  irdomitable  character  of  the  man,  is  the  "Life  of  Thomas 
Holcroft,"  begun  by  himself  and  concluded  by  Hazlitt. 

Of  his  strength  of  character  no  better  evidence  can  be  oflered 
than  that  the  first  seventeen  chapters  were  dictated  by  him  during 
his  last  illness  while  he  was  in  such  a  state  that  he  was  fre- 
quently obliged  to  pause  several  minutes  between  every  word, 
and  yet  the  events  are  as  clearly  narrated  and  the  style  is  a.s 
lucid  and  as  lively  as  if  it  had  been  written  in  his  most  vigorous 
day. 

He  was  born  in  London  in  the  winter  of  1715  ;  his  father 
being  by  trade  a  shoemaker,  but  of  a   dispo!=i1inn   so  unsteady 


72  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

that  he  never  could  remain  long  in  any  phace  or  at  any  occupa- 
tion. Here  is  the  account  his  son,  a  most  dutiful  and  aflectionale 
sou  who  maintained  hinx  to  his  death,  jrives  oi'  these  rambling 
propensities  : 

"  Having  been  bred  to  an  employment  for  which  he  was  very 
ill-fitted,  the  habit  that  became  most  rooted  in  and  most  fatal  to 
my  father,  was  a  fickleness  of  disposition,  a  thorough  persuasion 
after  he  had  tried  one  means  of  providing  for  himself  and  his 
family  for  a  certain  time,  that  he  had  discovered  another  far 
more  profitable  and  secure.  Steadiness  of  pursuit  was  a  virtue 
at  which  he  never  could  arrive ;  and  I  believe  few  men  in  the 
kingdom  had  in  the  course  of  their  lives  been  the  hucksters  of  so 
many  small  wares,  or  more  enterprising  dealers  in  articles  of  a 
halfpenny  value. 

"1  should  mention  that  to  carry  on  these  itinerant  trades  my 
father  had  begun  vvdth  purchasing  an  ass,  and  bought  more  as  he 
could  ;  now  and  then  increasing  his  store  by  the  addition  of  a 
ragged  pony  or  a  worn-out,  weather-beaten  E.ozinante.  In  au- 
tumn he  turned  his  attention  to  fruit,  and  conveyed  apples  and 
pears  in  hampers  from  villages  to  market-towns.  The  bad  nour- 
ishment I  met  with,  the  cold  and  wretched  manner  in  which  I 
was  clothed,  and  the  excessive  weariness  I  endured  in  following 
these  animals  day  after  day,  and  being  obliged  to  drive  creatures 
perhaps  still  more  weary  than  myself,  were  miseries  much  too 
great,  and  loaded  my  little  heart  with  sorrows  far  too  poignant 
ever  to  be  forgotten.  By-roads  and  high-roads  were  alike  to  be 
traversed,  but  the  former  far  the  oftenest,  for  they  were  then 
almost  innumerable,  and  the  state  of  them  in  winter  would 
hardly  be  believed  at  present. 

"  My  father  became  by  turns  a  collector  and  vender  of  rags,  a 
hardwareman,  a  dealer  in  buttons,  buckles,  and  pewter  spoons, 
in  short,  a  trafficker  in  whatever  could  bring  gain.  But  there 
was  one  thing  which  fixed  his  attention  longer  than  any  other, 
and  which  therefore  I  suppose  he  found  the  most  lucrative,  which 
was  to  fetch  pottery  from  the  neighborhood  of  Stoke  in  Stafford- 
shire, and  to  hawk  it  all  through  the  north  of  England.  Of  all 
other  traveling  this  was  the  most  continual,  the  most  severe,  and 
the  most  intolerable.     *     *     * 

"  Toward  Litchfield  on  the  right  lay  Cannock  heath  and  town, 
and  adjoining  to  this  heath  on  the  left  there  were  coal-pits  situ- 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  73 

ated  in  a  remarkably  lieavj-  clay  country.  Desirous  of  employing 
his  asses,  yet  averse  to  go  himself,  my  father  frequently  sent  me 
to  these  coal-pits  to  get  a  single  ass  loaded,  and  to  drive  him  over 
the  heath  to  Rugeley,  there  to  find  a  customer  fox  my  coals. 
The  article  was  so  cheap  and  so  near,  that  the  profits  could  be 
but  very  small,  yet  they  were  something.  Had  the  weather 
been  fine  when  I  was  sent  on  these  errands,  the  task  would  not 
have  been  so  difficult  nor  the  wonder  so  great ;  but  at  the  time  I 
was  unfortunately  sent  there,  I  have  a  perfect  recollection  of  deep 
ruts,  of  cattle,  both  asses  and  horses,  unable  to  drag  their  legs 
through  the  clay,  and  of  carts  and  wagons  that  were  set  fast 
in  it. 

"  One  day  my  ass  had  passed  safely  through  the  clay-ruts  and 
deep  roads,  and  under  my  guidance  had  begun  to  ascend  a  hill 
we  had  to  cross  on  Cannock  heath  on  our  way  to  Rugeley.  The 
wind  was  very  high,  though  while  we  were  on  low  ground  I  had 
never  suspected  its  real  force.  But  my  apprehensions  began  to 
increase  with  our  ascent,  and  when  on  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
nearly  opposite  to  two  clumps  of  trees  which  are  pictured  to  my 
imagination  as  they  stood  there  at  that  time,  it  blew  gust  after 
gust  too  powerful  for  the  loaded  animal  to  resist,  and  down  it 
came.  Through  life  I  have  always  had  a  strong  sense  of  the 
grief  and  utter  despair  I  then  felt.  But  what  a  little  surprises 
me  is,  that  I  have  no  recollection  whatever  of  the  means  by 
which  I  found  relief,  but  rather  of  the  naked  and  desolate  place 
in  which  I  was,  and  my  inability  to  help  myself.  Could  I  have 
unloaded  the  ass  it  would  not  have  been  much  matter,  but  the 
coals  were  brought  from  the  pits  in  such  masses  that  three  of 
them  were  generally  an  ass-load,  any  one  of  which  was  usually 
beyond  my  strength.  I  have  no  doubt,  however,  but  I  got  them 
by  some  means  or  other  to  Rugeley,  and  brought  the  money  lor 
them  to  my  father,  whom  I  could  not  help  secretly  accusing  of 
insensibility,  though  that  was  the  very  reverse  of  his  character. 

"  The  coal-pits  were  situated  on  the  extremity  of  an  old  forest 
inhabited  by  large  quantities  of  red  deer.  At  these  I  always 
stopped  to  look  ;  but  what  inspired  and  delighted  me  most  was 
the  noble  stag,  for  to  him  the  deer  appeared  insignificant.  Him 
I  often  saw  bounding  along,  eying  objects  without  fear,  and 
making  prodigious  leaps  over  obstacles  that  opposed  his  passage. 
In  this  free  state,  indeed,  he  can  not  but  excite  our  admiration. 

D 


74  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

"  One  lilllo  aiioLHlote  I  must  not  omit.  'I'lie  reader  will  natu- 
rally suppose  that  from  the  time  I  bef^an  to  travel  the  country 
with  my  lather  and  mother,  I  had  little  leisure  or  opportunity  to 
acquire  any  kuo\\'ledge  by  reading.  I  was  too  much  pressed  by 
fatipne,  hunger,  cold,  and  nakedness.  Still,  however,  1  can  not 
but  suppose,  as  well  from  my  own  propensity  to  obey  the  will  of 
God,  as  from  my  father's  wish  to  encourage  my  inclinations  of 
this  kind,  that  I  continued  to  repeat  my  prayers  and  catechism 
morning  and  evening,  and  on  Sundays  to  read  the  Prayer-book 
and  Bible.  At  all  events,  I  had  not  forgotten  to  read  ;  for  while 
we  were  at  the  house  near  Rugcley,  by  some  means  or  other  the 
song  of 'Chevy  Chase'  came  into  my  possession,  which  I  read 
over  with  great  delight  at  our  fireside.  My  father,  who  knew 
that  my  memory  was  tolerably  retentive,  and  saw  the  great 
number  of  stanzas  the  ballad  contained,  said  to  me,  '  Well,  Tom, 
can  you  get  that  seng  by  heart  ?'  To  this  question  I  very  readily 
answered,  '  Yes.'  '  In  how  long  a  time  ?'  '  Why,  father,  you 
know  I  have  got  such  and  such  work  for  to-morrow,  and  what 
you  will  set  me  for  the  following  days  I  can't  tell ;  however,  I 
can  get  it  in  three  days.'  '  What,  perfectly  ?'  '  Yes.'  '  Well, 
if  you  do  that,  I'll  give  you  a  halfpenny.'  Rejoiced  at  my  fa- 
ther's generosity,  '  Oh,  then,  never  fear,'  said  I.  I  scarcely  need 
add  that  my  task  was  easily  accomplished,  and  that  I  then  had 
the  valuable  sum  of  a  halfpenny  at  my  own  disposal." 

This  way  of  life  lasted  until  he  was  nine  or  ten  years  old ; 
then  came  a  spell  of  shoemaking  and  a  violent  attack  of  asthma, 
aggravated  by  the  stooping  position,  which  continued  a  year  or 
tw^o  longer.  The  disease  was  at  length  removed  by  the  skill  of 
a  country  apothecary,  and  a  fresh  impulse  was  given  to  the  poor 
boy's  aspirations  by  the  sight  of  a  strongly-contested  horse-race  at 
Nottingham.  His  longings  to  be  allowed  to  minister  in  some  way 
to  that  noble  animal  became  irrepressible ;  he  confided  them  to 
his  father,  and  was  fortunate  enough  to  be  received  into  the  service 
of  a  respectable  man  w^io  kept  a  training  stable  near  Newmarket. 
There,  being  placed  on  a  horse  too  spirited  for  his  youth,  his  feeble- 
ness, and  his  inexperience,  he  got  a  terrible  fall,  and  what  he 
grieved  for  more,  a  dismissal.  He  was  received  by  another 
trainer,  and  dismissed  again.  At  last  he  made  a  third  applica- 
tion : 

"  It  was  no  difficult  matter  to  meet  with  John  Watson :  he 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  75 

was  so  attentive  to  stable  hours,  that,  except  on  extraordinary, 
occasions,  he  was  always  to  be  found.  Being  first  careful  to  make 
myself  look  as  like  a  stable-boy  as  1  could,  I  came  at  the  hour  of 
four,  and  ventured  to  ask  if  I  could  see  John  Watson.  The  im- 
mediate answer  was  in  the  affirmative.  John  Watson  came, 
looked  at  me  with  a  serious  but  good-natured  countenance,  and 
accosted  me  first  with  :  '  Well,  my  lad,  what  is  your  business  ? 
I  suppose  I  can  guess  ;  you  want  a  place  ?'  '  Yes,  sir.'  '  Who 
have  you  lived  with  V  '  Mr.  Woodcock,  on  the  forest.  One  of 
your  boys,  Jack  Clarke,  brought  me  with  him  from  Nottingham.' 
'  How  came  you  to  leave  Mr.  Woodcock?'  '  I  had  a  sad  fall 
from  an  iron-gray  filly,  that  almost  killed  me.'  '  That  is  bad  in- 
deed. And  so  you  left  him  V  'He  turned  me  away,  sir.'  '  That 
is  honest.  I  like  your  speaking  the  truth.  So  you  are  come 
from  him  to  me  ?'  At  this  question  I  cast  my  eyes  down,  and 
hesitated  ;  then  fearfully  answered,  '  No,  sir.'  '  No  I  What, 
change  masters  twice  in  so  short  a  time  ?'  '  I  can't  help  it,  sir, 
if  I  am  turned  away.'     This  last  answer  made  him  smile." 

So  his  character  proving  satisfactory,  he  is  hired. 

"  My  station  was  immediately  assigned  me.  There  was  a  re- 
markably quiet  three-years-old  colt  lately  from  the  discipline  of 
the  breaker,  and  of  him  I  was  ordered  to  take  charge,  instructed 
by  one  of  the  upper  boys  in  every  thing  that  was  to  be  done,  and 
directed  to  back  him,  and  keep  pace  with  the  rest  when  they 
went  out  to  exercise,  only  taking  care  to  keep  a  straight  line,  and 
to  walk,  canter,  and  gallop  the  last.  *  *  *  *  x  did  not 
long  ride  a  quiet  colt  at  the  tail  of  the  string  (on  whose  back 
John  Watson  soon  put  a  new-comer),  but  had  a  dun  horse,  by  no 
means  a  tame  or  safe  one,  committed  to  my  care.  I  contrived  to 
ride  the  dun  horse  through  the  winter.  It  was  John  Watson's 
general  practice  to  exercise  his  horses  over  the  flat,  and  up  Cam- 
bridge Hill,  on  the  west  side  of  Newmarket ;  but  the  rule  was 
not  invariable.  One  wintry  day  he  ordered  us  up  to  the  Bury 
hills.  It  mizzled  a  very  sharp  sleet,  the  wind  became  uncom- 
monly cutting,  and  Dun,  the  horse  I  rode,  being  i-emarkable  for 
a  tender  skin,  found  the  wind  and  the  sleet,  which  blew  directly 
up  his  nostrils,  so  very  painful,  that  it  suddenly  made  him  out- 
rageous. He  started  from  the  rank  in  which  he  was  walking, 
tried  to  unseat  me,  endeavored  to  set  ofT  full  speed  ;  and  when  he 
foimd  he  could  not  master  me  so  as  to  get  head,  began  to  rear, 


76  KECOLLKCTIONS    OF 

snorted  most  violently,  threw  out  behind,  plunged,  and  used  every 
mischievous  exertion  of  whicii  the  muscular  powers  of  a  blood- 
horse  are  susceptible.  I,  who  felt  the  uneasiness  he  sufl'ered  be- 
fore his  violence  began,  being  luckily  prepared,  sat  him  as  steady 
and  upright  as  if  this  had  been  his  usual  exercise.  John  Watson 
was  riding  beside  his  horses,  and  a  groom,  I  believe  it  was  old 
Cheevers,  broke  out  into  an  exclamation,  '  I  say,  John,  that  is  a 
fine  lad  I'  '  Ay,  ay,'  returned  Watson,  highly  satisfied,  '  you  will 
find,  some  time  or  other,  that  there  are  few  in  Newmarket  that 
will  match  him.'  To  have  behaved  with  true  courage,  and  to 
meet  with  applause  like  this,  especially  jrom  John  Watson,  was 
a  triumph  such  as  I  could  at  this  time  have  felt  in  no  other  way 
with  the  same  sweet  satisfaction.  My  horsemanship  had  been 
seen  by  all  the  boys,  my  praises  had  been  heard  by  them  all.  * 
*  *  *  * 

"  Horses,  generally  speaking,  are  of  a  generous  and  kindly 
nature.  Of  their  friendly  disposition  toward  their  keepers,  there 
is  a  trait  known  to  every  boy  who  has  the  care  of  one  of  them, 
which  ought  not  to  be  omitted.  The  custom  is  to  rise  very  early, 
even  between  two  and  three  in  the  morning,  when  the  days 
lengthen.  In  the  course  of  the  day,  horses  and  boys  have  much 
to  do.  About  half-past  eight,  perhaps,  in  the  evening,  the  horse 
has  his  last  feed  of  oats,  which  he  generally  stands  to  enjoy  in  the 
center  of  his  smooth,  carefully-made  bed  of  long  clean  straw,  and 
by  the  side  of  him  the  weary  boy  will  often  lie  down,  it  being  held 
as  a  maxim,  a  rule  without  exception,  that  were  he  to  lie  even 
till  morning,  the  horse  would  never  lie  down  himself,  but  stand 
still,  careful  to  do  his  keeper  no  harm.     *     *     *     * 

"  Except  by  accident,  the  race-horse  never  trots.  He  must 
either  walk  or  gallop  ;  and  in  exercise,  even  when  it  is  the  hard- 
est, the  gallop  begins  slowly  and  gradually,  and  increases  till  the 
horse  is  nearly  at  full  speed.  When  he  has  galloped  half  a  mile, 
the  boy  begins  to  push  him  forward  without  relaxation  for  an- 
other half-mile.  This  is  at  the  period  when  the  horses  are  in  full 
exercise,  to  which  they  come  by  degrees.  The  boy  that  can  best 
regulate  these  degrees  among  those  of  light  weight  is  generally 
chosen  to  lead  the  gallop  ;  that  is,  he  goes  first  out  of  the  stable 
and  first  returns. 

"  In  the  time  of  long  exercise  this  is  the  first  brushing  gallop. 
A  brushing  gallop  signifies  that  the  horses  are  nearly  at  full  speed 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  77 

before  it  is  over,  and  it  is  commonly  made  at  last  rather  up  hill. 
Having  all  pulled  up,  the  horses  stand  some  two  or  three  minutes 
and  recover  their  wind  ;  they  then  leisurely  descend  the  hill  and 
take  a  long  walk,  after  which  they  are  brought  to  water.  But 
in  this,  as  in  every  thing  else  (at  least  as  soon  as  long  exercise 
begins),  every  thing  to  them  is  measured.  The  boy  counts  the 
number  of  times  the  horse  swallows  when  he  drinks,  and  allows 
him  to  take  no  more  gulps  than  the  groom  orders,  the  fewest  to 
the  hardest  exercise,  and  one  horse  more  or  less  than  another, 
according  to  the  judgment  of  the  groom.  After  watering  a  gentle 
gallop  is  taken,  and  after  that  another  walk  of  considerable 
length  ;  to  which  succeeds  the  second  and  last  brushing  gallop, 
which  is  by  far  the  most  severe.  When  it  is  over,  another  pause, 
thoroughly  to  recover  their  wind,  is  allowed  them  ;  then  a  long 
walk  is  begun,  the  limits  of  which  are  prescribed,  and  it  ends  in 
directing  their  ride  homeward. 

"  The  morning's  exercise  often  extends  to  four  houi's,  and  the 
evening's  to  much  about  the  same  time.     *     *     *     * 

"  In  every  stud  of  horses  there  are  frequent  changes  ;  and  as 
their  qualities  are  discovered,  one  horse  is  rejected  and  sold,  or  per- 
haps a  stranger  bought  and  admitted.  It  happened  on  such  an  oc- 
casion that  a  little  horse  was  brought  us  from  another  stud,  whence 
he  had  been  rejected  for  being  unmanageable.  He  had  shown 
himself  restive,  and  besides  the  snaffle,  was  ridden  in  a  check  rein. 
I  was  immediately  placed  on  his  back,  and  what  seemed  rather 
more  extraordinary,  ordered  to  lead  the  gallop  as  usual.  I  do 
not  know  how  it  happened,  but  under  me  he  showed  very  little 
disposition  to  become  refractory,  and  whenever  the  humor  oc- 
curred, it  was  soon  overcome.  That  he  was,  however,  watchful 
lor  an  opportunity  to  do  mischief,  the  following  incident  will  dis- 
cover. Our  time  for  hard  exercise  had  begun  ptrliaps  a  fortnight 
or  three  weeks.  As  that  proceeds  the  boys  are  less  cautious,  each 
having  less  suspicion  of  his  horse.  I  was  leading  the  gallop  one 
morning,  and  had  gone  more  than  half  the  way  toward  the  foot 
of  Cambridge  Hill,  when  something  induced  me  to  call  and  speak 
to  a  boy  behind  me,  for  which  purpose  I  rather  unseated  myself, 
and  as  1  looked  back  rested  on  my  left  thigh.  The  arch  traitor 
no  sooner  felt  the  precarious  seat  1  had  taken,  than  he  suddenly 
plunged  from  the  path,  had  his  head  between  his  legs,  his  heels 
in  the  air,  and  exerting  all  his  power  of  bodily  contortion,  flung 


78  HECOLLKCTIONS    OF 

lilt;  I'roni  tlie  saddle,  with  only  one  loot  in  the  stirrup,  and  both 
my  legs  on  the  ofi*  side.  I  immediately  heard  the  whole  set  of 
boys  behind  shoutinfj  triumphantly:  'A  calf,  a  calf!'  a  phrase 
of  contempt  for  a  boy  that  is  thrown.  Though  the  horse  was  then 
in  the  midst  of  his  wild  antics,  and  increasing  his  pace  to  a  full 
speed,  as  far  as  the  tricks  he  was  playing  would  permit,  still, 
finding  I  had  a  foot  in  the  stirrup,  I  replied  to  their  shouts  by  a 
whisper  to  myself:  '  It  is  no  calf  yet.'  The  horse  took  his  usual 
course,  turned  up  Cambridge  Hill,  and  now  rather  increased  his 
speed  than  his  mischievous  tricks.  This  opportunity  I  took,  with 
that  rashness  of  spirit  which  is  peculiar  to  boys ;  and  notwith- 
standing the  prodigious  speed  and  irregular  motion  of  the  horse, 
threw  my  left  leg  over  the  saddle.  It  was  with  the  utmost  diffi- 
culty that  I  could  preserve  my  balance,  but  I  did  ;  though  by 
this  effort  I  lost  hold  of  the  reins,  both  my  feet  were  out  of  the 
stirrup,  and  the  horse  for  a  moment  was  entirely  his  own  master. 
But  my  grand  object  was  gained — I  was  once  more  firmly  seated, 
the  reins  and  stirrups  were  recovered.  In  a  twinkling  the  horse, 
instead  of  being  pulled  up,  was  urged  to  his  utmost  speed  ;  and 
when  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  gallop,  he  stopped  of  himself 
with  a  very  good  will,  as  he  was  heartily  breathed.  The  short 
exclamations  of  the  boys,  at  having  witnessed  what  they  thought 
an  impossibility,  were  the  gratifications  I  received,  and  the 
greatest  perhaps  that  could  be  bestowed. 

"  I  once  saw  an  instance  of  what  may  be  called  the  grandeur 
of  alarm  in  a  horse.  In  winter,  during  short  exercise,  I  was  re- 
turning one  evening  on  the  back  of  a  hunter  that  was  put  in 
training  for  the  Hunter's  Plate.  There  had  been  some  little  rain, 
and  the  channel,  always  dry  in  summer,  was  then  a  small  brook. 
As  I  must  have  rubbed  his  legs  dry,  if  wetted,  I  gave  him  the 
rein,  and  made  him  leap  the  brook,  which  he  understood  as  a 
challenge  for  play  ;  and  beginning  to  gambol,  after  a  few  antics, 
he  reared  veiy  high,  and  plunging  forward  with  great  force 
alighted  with  his  fore-feet  on  the  edge  of  a  deep  gravel-pit,  half- 
fiUed  with  water,  so  near  that  a  very  few  inches  farther  he  must 
have  gone  headlong  down.  His  first  astonishment  and  fear  were 
so  great,  that  he  stood  for  some  time  breathless  and  motionless : 
then  gradually  recollecting  himself,  his  back  became  curved,  his 
ears  erect,  his  hind  and  fore-legs  in  a  position  for  sudden  retreat ; 
his  nostrils,  from  an  inward  snort,  burst  into  one  loud  expression 


A    LITERARY    LIFf:.  79 

of  horror,  and  rearing  on  his  liind-legs,  he  turned  short  round,  ex- 
pressing all  the  teri'ors  he  had  felt  by  the  utmost  violence  of 
plunging,  kicking,  and  other  bodily  exertions.  I  was  not  quite  so 
much  frightened  as  he  had  been,  but  I  was  heartily  glad  when 
he  became  quiet  again,  that  the  accident  had  been  no  worse. 
The  only  little  misfortune  I  had  was  the  loss  of  my  cap,  and  being 
obliged  to  ride  back  some  way,  in  order  to  recover  it." 

By  this  time  young  Holcroft  was  sixteen,  and  had  begun  to 
feel  a  craving  for  knowledge  of  a  different  nature  from  any  that 
he  could  obtain  at  Newmarket ;  although  even  there  he  had  con- 
trived to  read  every  book  that  came  in  his  way,  to  perfect  him- 
self in  arithmetic,  and  to  acquire  a  scientific  knowledge  of  vocal 
music,  which  was  of  great  use  to  him  in  his  after-career.  He  had 
made  this  progress,  too,  chiefly  from  his  own  efforts,  so  that  the 
great  process  of  self-instruction,  which  distinguished  him  through 
life  was  now  begun  ;  and  he  already  knew  enough  to  feel  an  ar- 
dent desire  to  know  more.  London,  where  his  father  was  now 
living  as  a  cobbler,  offered  at  least  the  hope  of  education  ;  accord- 
ingly, to  the  great  amazement  and  regret  of  good  John  Watson, 
who  had  been  uniformly  kind  to  him,  and  to  M'hom  he  could 
hardly  summon  courage  to  announce  his  determination,  he  aban- 
doned the  field  in  which  his  success  had  been  so  encouraging, 
took  leave  of  his  companions,  biped  and  quadruped,  and  made  his 
way  to  the  great  city. 

Here  a  long  series  of  disappointments  awaited  him.  He  be- 
came, indeed,  a  skillful  and  rapid  worker  at  the  shoemaking 
trade  ;  but  the  position  and  confinement  disagreed  with  him 
(well  they  might  after  the  free  seat  on  horseback,  the  exercise 
and  the  pure  air  of  Newmarket),  and  his  habit  oi  idling  his  time 
in  reading,  as  the  phrase  goes,  prevented  his  earning  more  than 
the  bare  necessaries  of  his  abstemious  life.  He  tried  various 
schemes  ;  taught  an  evening  school  ;  kept  a  day-school  some- 
where in  the  country,  with  such  indiflxirent  success  that  he  had 
but  one  pupil,  and  lived  upon  potatoes  and  buttermilk  for  three 
months ;  authorship,  too,  he  tried  in  a  small  way,  creeping  into 
notice  in  the  most  obscure  newspapers  and  the  smallest  maga- 
zines ;  and  at  about  the  age  of  twenty,  when  barely  able  to  sup- 
port himself,  he  married.  It  is  to  be  noticed  that  throughout  his 
whole  life  he  was  evidently  a  marrying  man  ;  having  married 
three  wives,  and  left  a  young  widow,  the  daughter  of  Monsieur 


80  liECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Morcier,  author  of  the  "  Tableau  do  Paris."  Shortly  alter  his 
first  marriage,  of  which  we  hear  but  little,  although  he  was  emi- 
nently kind  and  indulgent  in  his  domestic  character,  he  seems  to 
have  been  induced,  by  his  success  in  a  sporting  club,  to  try  his 
Ibrtune  on  the  stage.  He  has  left  a  characteristic  account  of  his 
application  to  Foote. 

"  He  had  the  good-fortune  to  find  the  manager  at  breakfast 
with  a  young  man,  whom  he  employed  partly  on  the  stage,  and 
partly  as  an  amanuensis.  '  Well,'  said  he,  '  young  gentleman,  I 
guess  your  business  by  the  sheepishness  of  your  manner;  you 
have  got  the  theatrical  cacoetlies ;  you  have  rubbed  your  shoul- 
der against  the  scene  :  nay,  is  it  not  so  ?'  Holcroft  answered  that 
it  was.  '  Well,  and  what  great  hero  should  you  wish  to  person- 
ate ?  Hamlet,  or  Richard,  or  Othello,  or  who  V  Holcroft  re- 
plied that  he  distrusted  his  capacity  for  performing  any  that  he 
had  mentioned.  '  Indeed  !'  said  he,  '  that's  a  wonderful  sign  of 
grace.  I  have  been  teased  these  many  years  by  all  the  spouters 
in  London,  of  which  honorable  fraternity  I  dare  say  you  are  a 
member  ;  for  I  can  perceive  no  stage  varnish,  none  of  your  true 
strolling  brass  lacker  on  your  face.'  '  No,  indeed,  sir.'  '  T  thought 
so.  Well,  sir,  I  never  saw  a  spouter  before  that  did  not  want  to 
surprise  the  town,  in  Pierre,  or  Lothario,  or  some  character  that 
demands  all  the  address  and  every  requisite  of  a  master  in  the 
art.  But,  come,  give  us  a  touch  of  your  quality — a  speech. 
There's  a  youngster,'  pointing  to  his  secretary,  '  will  roar  Jaflfier 
against  Pierre.  Let  the  loudest  take  both.'  Accordingly,  he  held 
the  book,  and  at  it  they  fell.  The  scene  they  chose  was  that  of 
the  before-mentioned  characters  in  '  Venice  Preserved.'  For  a 
little  while  after  they  began,  it  seems  that  Holcroft  took  the  hint 
that  Foote  had  thrown  out,  and  restrained  his  wrath.  But  this 
appeared  so  insipid,  and  the  ideas  of  rant  and  excellence  were  so 
strongly  connected  in  his  mind,  that  when  Jaffier  began  to  exalt 
his  voice,  he  could  no  longer  contain  himself;  but,  as  Nic  Bottom 
says,  they  both  roared  so,  that  it  would  have  done  your  heart 
good  to  hear  them.  Foote  smiled,  and  after  enduring  this  vigor- 
ous attack  upon  his  organs  of  hearing  as  long  as  he  was  able,  in- 
terrupted them. 

"  Far  from  discouraging  our  new  beginner,  he  told  him  that 
with  respect  to  giving  the  meaning  of  the  words,  he  spoke  much 
more  correctly  than  he  had  expected.     '  But,'  said  he,  '  like  other 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  81 

novices,  you  seem  to  imagine  that  all  excellence  lies  in  the  lungs  ; 
whereas  such  violent  exertions  should  be  used  very  sparingly,  and 
upon  extraordinary  occasions  ;  for  if  an  actor  make  no  reserve  of 
his  powers,  how  is  he  to  rise  according  to  the  tone  of  the  passion?' 
He  then  read  the  scene  they  had  rehearsed,  and  with  so  much 
propriety  and  ease,  as  well  as  force,  that  Holcroft  was  surprised, 
having  hitherto  supposed  the  risible  faculties  to  be  the  only  ones 
over  which  he  had  any  great  power." 

Thomas  Holcroft  came  away  from  this  celebrated  wit,  delighted 
with  the  ease  and  frankness  of  his  behavior,  and  elated  with  his 
prospect  of  success.  Unluckily,  however,  he  had  already  entered 
into  negotiation  with  a  very  different  person  ;  and  tempted  by  an 
ofler  nominally  higher,  in  point  of  salary,  agreed  with  Macklin 
for  a  small  engagement  in  a  theatre  in  Dublin.  The  brutal 
manners  of  Macklin  are  well  known.  Hazlitt  says  that  until  the 
age  of  forty  he  could  not  even  read  ;  an  assertion  which,  consid- 
ering the  undoubted  merit  of  his  play,  "  The  Man  of  the  World," 
appears  all  but  incredible.  It  is,  however,  certain  that  he  was 
coarse,  illiterate,  and  unfeeling  ;  and  the  manner  in  which  he 
suflered  the  Dublin  manager  to  depart  from  the  engagements 
into  which  he  had  entered  with  poor  Holcroft  does  very  little 
honor  to  his  principles. 

For  the  next  seven  years  our  luckless  adventurer  was  tossed 
about  the  world  as  a  strolling  player,  taking  all  parts,  but  suc- 
ceeding best  in  old  men  and  low  comedy,  singing  in  choruses, 
filling  the  post  of  prompter — always  penniless,  and  sometimes 
nearly  starved.  At  the  end  of  that  time  his  prospects  improved  ; 
some  family  connection  (it  is  not  said  what)  threw  him  upon  the 
powerful  protection  of  the  Grevilles  and  the  Crewes,  and  we 
find  him  numbered  in  the  Drury  Lane  company,  and  complaining 
in  a  letter  to  Sheridan  of  walking  in  processions,  and  playing  the 
part  of  a  dumb  steward  in  "  Love  for  Love." 

Nevertheless,  matters  are  mending.  He  takes  a  house  in  Lon- 
don, marries  a  second  wife,  becomes  a  recognized  author,  and  is 
employed  by  the  London  booksellers  to  write  an  account  of  the 
riots  of  1780.  While  attending  the  Old  Bailey  trials  for  that 
purpose,  he  was  happy  enough  to  save  the  life  of  an  innocent 
man,  who  had  nearly  been  condemned  through  the  mistake  of  a 
witness. 

Things  go  better.     He  brings  out  his  less-known  novels,  his 

D* 


82  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

least  colobraU'tl,  but  still  suco(.'ssliil  jilays;  ami  becomes  one  of 
the  best  and  most  voluminous  translators  upon  record.  If  ever 
one  happens  to  take  up  an  English  version  of  a  French  or  Ger- 
man book  of  that  period — "  Memoirs  of  Baron  Trenck,"  or 
"  Caroline  de  Litchfeld" — and  if  that  version  have  in  it  the 
zost  and  savor  of  original  wrilinp,  we  shall  be  sure  to  fmd  the 
name  of  Thomas  Ilolcroft  in  the  title-page. 

One  of  his  translating  feats  was  rernarkabH.  Beaumarchais' 
M'ondcrful  play  of  "  Figaro,"  was  carrying  the  world  before  it 
in  Paris  :  and  would  be  sure  to  make  the  fortune  of  an  Eng- 
lish theater.  But  the  comedy  was  unpublished,  and  no  copy 
could  be  procured  from  any  quarter.  Ilolcroft  made  up  his  mind 
to  attend  the  performance  every  evening,  until  he  had  fixed  the 
whole  work  in  his  memory.  He  took  a  friend  with  him,  and 
they  wrote  down  their  several  recollections  on  their  return,  very 
literally  comparing  notes.  When  it  is  remembered  that  the 
"  Marriage  of  Figaro"  is  the  longest  play  in  the  French  language, 
the  effort  of  a  foreigner  bringing  the  whole  away  in  a  week  or 
ten  days  will  appear  most  extraordinary,  for  not  the  slightest 
memorandum  could  be  made  in  the  theater.  His  translation 
under  the  name  of  "  Follies  of  a  Day"  appeared  almost  imme- 
diately at  Covent  Garden,  producing  him  six  hundred  pounds 
from  the  manager,  besides  a  large  sum  for  the  copyright. 

This  was  perhaps  the  happiest  time  of  Mr.  Holcroft's  life — 
this  and  a  few  succeeding  years.  His  comedies,  "  Duplicity," 
"  The  School  for  Arrogance,"  and  "  The  Road  to  Ruin,"  evinced 
talent  (I  had  well  nigh  written  genius)  of  the  highest  order.  The 
serious  parts  above  all  are  admirable.  Perhaps  no  scenes  have 
ever  drawn  so  many  tears  as  those  between  the  father  and  the 
smin  the  last-mentioned  play.  The  famous  "Good  Night"  is 
truly  the  one  touch  of  nature  that  makes  the  whole  world  kin  ; 
and  although  I  have  seen  it  played  as  well  as  any  thing  can  be 
played  by  Munden  and  EUiston,  I  have  always  felt  that  the  real 
merit  belonged  to  the  author.  His  greater  novels,  too,  "  Anna 
St.  Ives"  and  "Hugh  Trevor,"  were  full  of  powerful  writing; 
and  he  seemed  destined  to  a  long  course  of  literary  prosperity.  A 
terrible  domestic  grief  came  to  break  the  course  of  this  felicity. 
I  transcribe  Mr.  Hazlitt's  narrative  : 

"  William  Holcroft  was  his  only  son,  and  favorite  child  ;  and 
this  very  circumstance,  perhaps,  led  to  the  catastrophe  which  had 


A    L  IT E  K  A  1{  Y    L I F  E.  83 

nearly  proved  fatal  to  his  father,  as  well  as  to  himself.  He  had 
been  brought  up,  if  any  thing,  with  too  much  care  and  tender- 
ness ;  he  was  a  boy  of  extraordinary  capacity,  and  Mr.  Holcroft 
thought  no  pains  should  be  spared  for  his  instruction  and  improve- 
ment. From  the  first,  however,  he  had  showm  an  unsettled  dis- 
position ;  and  his  propensity  to  ramble  was  such,  from  his  child- 
hood, that  when  he  was  only  four  years  old,  and  under  the  care 
of  an  aunt  in  Nottingham,  he  wandered  away  to  a  place  at  some 
distance,  where  there  was  a  coffee-house,  into  which  he  went,  and 
read  the  newspapers  to  the  company,  by  whom  he  was  taken  care 
of,  and  sent  home.  This  propensity  was  so  strong  in  him,  that  it 
became  habitual,  and  he  had  run  away  six  or  seven  times  before 
the  last. 

"  On  Sunday,  November  8th,  1789,  he  brought  his  father  a 
short  poem.  A  watch,  which  had  been  promised  to  him  as  a 
reward,  was  given  to  him  ;  his  father  conversed  with  him  in  the 
most  aftectionate  manner,  praised,  encouraged  him,  and  told  him 
that,  notwithstanding  his  former  errors  and  wanderings,  he  was 
convinced  he  would  become  a  good  and  excellent  man.  But  he 
observed,  when  taking  him  by  the  hand  to  express  his  kindness, 
that  the  hand  of  the  youth,  instead  of  returning  the  pressure  as 
usual,  remained  cold  and  insensible.  This,  however,  at  the  mo- 
ment was  supposed  to  be  accidental.  He  seemed  unembarrassed, 
cheerful,  and  asked  leave  without  any  appearance  of  design  or 
hesitation  to  dine  with  a  friend  in  the  city,  which  was  imme- 
diately granted.  He  thanked  his  father,  went  down  stairs,  and 
several  times  anxiously  inquired  whether  his  father  were  gone  to 
dress.  As  soon  as  he  was  told  that  he  had  left  his  room,  he 
went  up  stairs  again,  broke  open  a  drawer,  and  took  out  forty 
pounds.  With  this,  the  watch,  a  pocket-book,  and  a  pair  of  pis- 
tols of  his  father's  he  hastened  away  to  join  one  of  his  acquain- 
tances, who  was  going  to  the  West  Indies.  He  was  immediately 
pursued  to  Gravesend,  but  ineffectually.  It  was  not  discovered 
till  the  following  Wednesday  that  he  had  taken  the  money. 
After  several  days  of  the  most  distressing  inquietude,  there  ap- 
peared strong  presumptive  proof  that  he,  with  his  acquaintance, 
was  on  board  the  '  Fame,'  Captain  Carr,  then  lying  in  the 
Downs.  The  father  and  a  friend  immediately  set  off",  and  traveled 
post  all  Sunday  night  to  Deal.  Their  information  proved  true, 
for  he  was  found  to  be  on  board  the  '  Fame,'  where  he  assumed 


84  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

a  false  naiiio,  tlu)uc:h  his  Iruo  sitiiatioii  was  known  to  the  Captain. 
Ho  Imd  spent  all  liis  money,  except  lil'tccn  pounds,  in  paying  for 
his  passage,  and  purchasing  what  he  thought  he  wanted.  He 
had  declared  he  would  shoot  any  person  who  came  to  take  him  ; 
but  that  if  his  father  came  he  would  shoot  himself.  His  youth, 
for  he  was  but  sixteen,  made  the  threat  appear  incredible.  The 
pistols,  pocket-book,  and  remaining  money  were  locked  up  in 
safety  for  him  by  his  acquaintance.  But  he  had  another  pair  of 
pistols  concealed.  Mr.  Holcroft  and  his  friend  went  on  board, 
made  inquiries,  and  understood  he  was  there.  He  had  retired 
into  a  dark  part  of  the  steerage.  When  he  was  called,  and  did 
not  answer,  a  light  was  sent  for  ;  and  as  he  heard  the  ship's 
steward,  some  of  the  sailors,  and  his  father,  approaching,  conscious 
of  what  he  had  done,  and  unable  to  bear  the  presence  of  his 
father,  and  tlie  open  shame  of  detection,  he  suddenly  put  an  end 
to  his  existence. 

"  The  shock  which  Mr.  Holcroft  received  was  almost  mortal. 
For  three  days  he  could  not  see  his  own  family,  and  nothing  but 
the  love  he  bore  that  family  could  probably  have  prevented  him 
from  sinking  under  his  affliction.  He  seldom  went  out  of  his 
house  for  a  whole  year  afterward  ;  and  the  impression  was  never 
completely  effaced  from  his  mind," 

After  recovering  from  this  calamity,  Mr.  Holcroft  was  surprised 
by  one  of  a  totally  diflerent  nature,  which  came  in  the  form  of 
an  indictment  for  high  ti-eason.  Nothing  but  the  panic  into 
which  the  minds  of  men  were  thrown  by  the  crimes  and  excesses 
of  the  first  French  Revolution  can  explain  the  virulence  with 
which  every  one  who  stood  suspected  of  cherishing  liberty  or  de- 
siring reform,  was  assailed  during  that  evil  day.  It  was  the 
cruel  and  unreasoning  persecution  that  is  born  of  fear ;  and  in 
Mr.  Holcroft's  case  the  wrong  was  more  glaring  than  in  that  of 
most  others,  inasmuch  as  he  was  a  purely  speculative  politician, 
and  his  speculations,  although  sufficiently  visionary  and  Utopian, 
were  anything  rather  than  sanguinary  or  violent.  One  of  his 
friends  said  of  him,  that  he  was  a  sort  of  natural  Ciuaker.  And 
certainly  it  would  be  as  \vise  to  prosecute  a  member  of  the  Peace 
Society,  or  a  writer  on  the  millennium,  as  one  whose  dreams  were 
of  the  perfectibility  of  human  nature,  the  extinction  of  warfare, 
and  the  triumph  of  wisdom  and  justice  upon  earth. 

He  belonged,  it  is  true,  to  the  Society  for  Constitutional  Refer- 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  85 

mation,  but  had  moved  none  of  the  resolutions,  had  seldom  spoken, 
and  except  for  his  literary  eminence  was  one  of  the  least  promi- 
nent members  of  the  association.  Nevertheless  his  name,  to- 
gether with  those  of  Hardy,  Thelwall,  Home  Tooke,  and  eight 
others,  appeared  in  the  Bill  presented  to  the  Grand  Jury  at 
Hicks's  Hall.  Mr.  Holcroft  in  some  measure  retaliated  upon  the 
Crown  lawyers  the  surprise  they  had  occasioned  him,  by  unex- 
pectedly presenting  himself  before  Chief  Justice  Eyre,  and  sur- 
rendering himself  to  the  Court  without  waiting  for  the  execution 
of  the  warrant.  The  manliness  and  firmness  of  his  conduct, 
accompanied  by  perfect  respectfulness  and  self-command,  obtained 
for  him  more  civility  than  was  shown  to  the  other  parties  included 
in  the  indictment. 

The  issue  is  well  known.  Thomas  Hardy,  the  first  man  put 
into  the  dock,  was  acquitted,  and  the  other  prisoners  were  dis- 
charged without  being  brought  to  trial. 

But  the  efi'ect  of  this  accusation  did  not  terminate  in  the  court 
of  justice.  The  demon  of  party  hatred  was  evoked.  Even  such 
a  man  as  Mr.  Windham,  high-minded,  large-hearted,  chivalrous 
as  he  was,  did  not  disdain  to  talk  of  "  acquitted  felons,"  and  as 
a  dramatic  writer  Mr.  Holcroft  was  especially  amenable  to  pub- 
lic opinion.  Every  fresh  play  was  a  fresh  battle  ;  and  a  battle, 
whatever  be  the  issue,  is  in  itself  fatal  to  a  great  success  ;  so  that 
at  last,  comedies  which  had  no  more  to  do  with  politics  than 
"  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor"  were  fain  to  be  brought  out 
tmder  the  name  of  a  fictitious  author. 

It  is  not  many  years  ago  that  I  and  another  lover  of  the  drama, 
an  old  and  valued  friend,  were  disputing  as  to  the  writer  of  "  He's 
Much  to  Blame."  Both  possessed  the  play,  and  both  were  cer- 
tain as  to  the  name  printed  in  the  title-page.  Neither  were 
wrong.  It  was  the  story  of  the  two  knights  and  the  shield.  My 
friend's  copy  was  the  first  edition  with  the  feigned  name  ;  mine 
the  seventh  when  the  ordeal  was  past,  and  the  true  author  re- 
stored to  his  rightful  place.  May  Heaven  avert  from  us  the  re- 
newal of  such  prejudice  and  such  injustice  ! 

Wearied  out  with  these  conflicts  Mr.  Holcroft  retired  first  to 
Hamburgh  and  then  to  France,  where  he  resided  many  years, 
occasionally  sending  to  England  translations  of  popular  foreign 
books.     His  last  original  work  was  one  on  France  of  great  merit. 


86  KK COL LECTIONS    OF 

Fow  know  the  pooj)lo  boiler  or  could  describe  them  so  well.  His 
stories  are  pleasant  and  characteristic  : 

"  My  wile  was  one  day  buying  souic  Jish  ;  while  she  was  un- 
determined the  girl  said  to  her,  '  Prcncz  ccla,  car  votre  mair  est 
un  brave  hwnnie  ?'  My  wife  replied,  '  Out,  cela,  se  pent  bien  : 
vmis  comment  savcz-vous  qu'il  est  un  brave  honime  V  '  Cest 
Cfxal,'  answered  the  girl,  '  ccla  fait  plaisir  a  cntcmlrc'  The 
girl's  maxim  is  sound  morality  wherever  I  have  been  in  France." 

This  is  characteristic  too  in  the  best  sense  :  a  charming  mix- 
ture of  goodness  and  grace. 

"  A  poor  musician  who  usually  brought  a  small  pianoforte  in 
the  afternoon  to  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  played  that  those  who 
were  pleased  might  reward  him  by  a  trilie,  having  played  in  vain 
one  evening  was  sorrowfully  returning  home.  He  was  seen  by 
Elleviou  (a  famous  actor),  remarked,  and  questioned.  The  pov- 
erty and  ill  success  of  the  wandering  musician  moved  the  pity  of 
the  actor,  who  desired  the  instrument  might  again  be  put  down  ; 
and  stepping  aside  he  said  he  would  return  instantly.  His  wife 
and  friend  had  passed  on,  and  he  brought  them  back.  It  was 
nearly  dark.  Pradere,  his  friend,  sat  down  to  the  pianoforte  and 
accompanied  Elleviou,  who  began  to  sing  to  the  astonishment  of 
numbers  that  were  soon  assembled.  The  men  had  drawn  the 
hat  over  the  brow,  Madame  Elleviou  let  down  her  vail,  and  went 
round  to  collect.  The  pleasingness  of  her  manner,  the  little 
thankful  courtesies  she  dropped  to  all  who  gave,  the  whiteness  of 
her  hand,  and  the  extraordinary  music  they  heard,  rendered  the 
audience  so  liberal,  that  she  made  several  tours,  and  none  ineflec- 
tually.  Elleviou  how^ever  could  not  long  remain  unknown,  and 
finding  themselves  discovered,  Madame  Elleviou  gave  all,  and  it 
was  supposed  more  than  all,  she  had  collected  from  the  crowd  to 
the  poor  musician.  The  sum  amounted  to  thirty  shillings,  and 
among  the  pence  and  halfpence  there  were  crown  pieces  which 
no  doubt  were  given  by  the  actors.  The  feelings  of  the  man  as 
the  audience  dispersed  are  not  easily  to  be  described.  The  unex- 
pected relief  afforded  to  him  who  was  departing  so  disconsolate 
was  great  indeed  ;  but  it  was  forgotten  in  the  charming  behavior 
of  those  w^ho  relieved  him  ;  in  their  almost  divine  music  and  in 
the  strangeness  of  the  adventure.  The  surrounding  people  were 
scarcely  less  moved  ;  so  kind  an  act  from  a  man  in  such  high 
public  estimation  excited  more  than  admiration  ;  and  the  tears 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  87 

of  gratitude  shed  by  the  musician  drew  sympathizing  drops  from 
many  of  the  spectators." 

Mr.  Holcroft  wrote  httle  verse,  but  had  he  chosen  that  medium 
of  thought,  would  probably  have  excelled  in  it.  The  story  of 
"  Gafi'er  Gray"  has,  in  common  with  many  short  poems  of  Southey 
written  at  the  same  period,  the  great  fault  of  setting  class  against 
class,  a  fault  which  generally  involves  a  want  of  truth  ;  but  it 
does  its  work  admirably,  and  produces  exactly  the  efiect  intended 
in  the  fewest  possible  words. 

"  Ho !  wliy  doet  thou  shiver  aud  shake, 

Gaffer  Gray, 
And  why  doth  thy  nose  look  so  blue  V 
"  'Tis  the  weather  that's  cold, 
'Tis  I'm  grown  very  old, 
And  my  doublet  is  not  very  new, 
Well-a-day !" 

"  Then  line  thy  worn  doublet  with  ale, 

Gaffer  Gray, 
And  warm  thy  old  heart  with  a  glass." 
"  Nay,  but  credit  I've  none. 
And  my  money's  all  gone  ; 
Tlien  say  how  may  that  come  to  pass  1 
Well-a-day !" 

"  Hie  away  to  the  house  on  the  brow, 

Gaficr  Gray ; 
And  knock  at  the  jolly  priest's  door." 
"  The  priest  often  preaches 
Against  worldly  riches ; 
But  ne'er  gives  a  mite  to  the  poor, 
Well-a-day !" 

"  The  lawyer  lives  under  the  hill, 

Gaflbr  Gray, 
Warmly  fenced  both  in  back  and  in  front." 
"  He  will  fasten  his  locks. 
And  will  threaten  the  stocks, 
Sliould  he  ever  more  find  me  in  want, 
Well-a-day!" 

"  The  squire  has  fat  beeves  and  brown  ale, 

Gaffer  Gray, 
And  the  season  will  welcome  you  there." 

"  His  fat  beeves  and  his  beer 

And  his  merry  new  year 


88  HE COL LECTIONS    OF 

Arc  all  for  the  flush  aiul  the  fair, 
Well-a-day  !" 

"  My  keg  is  but  low,  I  confess, 

Gaffer  Gray : 
What  thenl     While  it  lasts,  man,  we'll  live." 
''  The  poor  man  alone. 
When  he  hears  the  poor  moan, 
Of  his  morsel  a  morsel  will  give, 
Well-a-day !" 

This  author,  so  gifted,  so  various,  and  so  laborious,  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  of  self-educated  men,  died  in  London  on  the  3d 
of  March,  1809,  after  a  long  and  painful  illness,  at  the  age  of 
sixty-three  ;  I  fear  poor. 


A    LITERAEY    LIFE.  89 


VIII. 

AUTHORS  ASSOCIATED  WITH  PLACES. 

BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 

There  are  some  places  that  seem  formed  by  nature  for  doub- 
ling and  redoubling  the  delight  of  reading  and  dreaming  over  the 
greater  poets.  Living  in  the  country,  one  falls  into  the  habit  of 
choosing  out  a  fitting  nest  for  that  enjoyment,  and  w^ith  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  especially,  to  w^hose  dramatic  fascinations  I  have  the 
happy  knack  of  abandoning  myself,  without  troubling  myself  in 
the  least  about  their  dramatic  faults  (I  do  not  speak  here  of  graver 
sins,  observe,  gentle  reader) ;  their  works  never  seem  to  me  half 
so  delightful  as  when  I  pore  over  them  in  the  silence  and  solitude 
of  a  certain  green  lane,  about  half  a  mile  from  home  ;  sometimes 
seated  on  the  roots  of  an  old  fantastic  beech,  sometimes  on  the 
trunk  of  a  felled  oak,  or  sometimes  on  the  ground  itself,  with  my 
back  propped  lazily  against  a  rugged  elm. 

In  that  very  lane  am  I  writing  on  this  sultry  June  day,  luxu- 
riating in  the  shade,  the  verdure,  the  fragrance  of  hay-field  and 
of  bean-field,  and  the  absence  of  all  noise,  except  the  song  of 
birds,  and  that  strange  mingling  of  many  sounds,  the  whir  of  a 
thousand  forms  of  insect  life,  so  often  heard  among  the  general 
hush  of  a  summer  noon. 

Woodcock  Lane  is  so  called,  not  after  the  migratory  bird  so 
dear  to  sportsman  and  to  epicure,  but  from  the  name  of  a  family, 
who,  three  centuries  ago,  owned  the  old  manor-house,  a  part  of 
which  still  adjoins  it,  just  as  the  neighboring  eminence  of  Beech 
Hill  is  called  after  the  ancient  family  of  De  la  Beche,  rather  than 
I'rom  the  three  splendid  beech-trees  that  still  crown  its  summit ; 
and  this  lane  would  probably  be  accounted  beautiful  by  any  one 
who  loved  the  close  recesses  of  English  scenery,  even  though  the 
person  in  question  should  happen  not  to  have  haunted  it  these 
fifty  years  as  I  have  done. 


90  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 

It  is  a  frrastsy  lane,  edg'iifi^  of!"  iVoiu  llio  hif^h  road,  nearly  two 
miles  in  length,  and  varyinji:  iVom  fifty  to  a  hundred  yards  in 
width.  The  hedperovv's  on  either  side  are  so  thickly  planted  with 
tall  elms  as  almost  to  form  a  verdant  wall,  for  the  greater  part 
doubly  screened  by  rows  of  the  same  stately  tree,  the  down-drop- 
})in<r  branches  forming  close  shady  footpatlis  on  either  side,  and 
leaving  in  the  center  a  broad  level  strip  of  the  iinost  turf,  just 
broken,  here  and  there,  by  cart-tracks,  and  crossed  by  slender  rills. 
The  efi'ect  of  these  tall  solemn  trees,  so  equal  in  height,  so  un- 
broken, and  so  continuous,  is  quite  grand  and  imposing  as  twilight 
comes  on  ;  especially  when  some  slight  bend  in  the  lane  gives  to 
the  outline  almost  the  look  of  an  amphitheater. 

On  the  southern  side,  the  fields  slope  with  more  or  less  abrupt- 
ness to  the  higher  lands  above,  and  windhig  footpaths  and  close 
woody  lanes  lead  up  the  hill  to  the  breezy  common.  To  the 
north,  the  fields  are  generally  of  pasture-land,  broken  by  two  or 
three  picturesque  farm-houses,  with  their  gable  ends,  their  tall 
chimneys,  their  trim  gardens,  and  their  flowery  orchards ;  and 
varied  by  a  short  avenue,  leading  to  the  equally  picturesque  old 
manor-house,  of  darkest  brick  and  quaintest  architecture.  Over 
the  gates,  too,  we  catch  glimpses  of  more  distant  objects.  The 
large  white  mansion  where  my  youth  was  spent,  rising  from  its 
plantations,  and  the  small  church,  embowered  in  trees,  whose  bell 
is  heard  at  the  close  of  day,  breathing  of  peace  and  holiness. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  lane,  a  bright  clear  brook  comes  dancing 
over  a  pebbly  bed,  bringing  with  it  all  that  water  is  wont  to  bring 
of  life,  of  music,  and  of  color.  Gayly  it  bubbles  through  banks 
adorned  by  the  yellow  flag,  the  flowering  rush,  the  willow-herb, 
the  meadow-sweet,  and  the  forget-me-not ;  now  expanding  into 
a  wide  quiet  pool,  now  contracted  into  a  mimic  rapid  between 
banks  that  almost  meet ;  and  so  the  little  stream  keeps  us  com- 
pany, giving,  on  this  sunny  day,  an  indescribable  feeling  of  refresh- 
ment and  coolness,  until  we  arrive  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  where 
it  slants  away  to  the  right  amid  a  long  stretch  of  water-meadows ; 
while  we  pause  to  gaze  at  the  lovely  scenery  on  the  other  hand, 
where  a  bit  of  marshy  ground  leads  to  the  park  paling  and  grand 
old  trees  of  the  Great  House  at  Beech  Hill,  through  an  open 
grove  of  oaks,  terminated  by  a  pied^  of  wild  woodland,  so  wild, 
that  Robin  Hood  might  have  taken  it  for  a  glade  in  his  own 
Forest  of  merry  iShcrwood. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  91 

Except  about  half  a  mile  of  gravelly  road,  leading  from  the 
gate  of  the  manor-house  to  one  of  the  smaller  farms,  and  giving 
by  its  warm  orange  tint,  much  of  richness  to  the  picture,  there  is 
nothing  like  a  passable  carriage-way  in  the  whole  length  of  the 
lane,  so  that  the  quiet  is  perfect. 

Occasional  passengei's  there  are,  however,  gentle  and  simple ; 
my  friend,  Mr.  B.,  for  instance,  has  just  cantered  past  on  his 
blood  horse,  with  a  nod  and  a  smile,  saying  nothing,  but  appa- 
rently a  good  deal  amused  with  my  arrangements.  And  here 
comes  a  procession  of  cows  going  to  milking,  with  an  old  attend- 
ant, still  called  the  cow-boy,  who,  although  they  have  seen  me 
often  enough,  one  should  think,  sitting  underneath  a  tree  writing, 
with  my  little  maid  close  by  hemming  flounces,  and  my  dog, 
Fanchon,  nestled  at  my  feet — still  will  start,  as  if  they  had  never 
seen  a  woman  before  in  their  lives.  Back  they  start,  and  then 
they  rush  forward,  and  then  the  old  drover  emits  certain  sounds, 
which  it  is  to  be  presumed  the  cows  understand  ;  sounds  so  hor- 
ribly discordant  that  little  Fanchon — although  to  her,  too,  they 
ought  to  be  familiar,  if  not  comprehensible — starts  up  in  a  fright 
on  her  feet,  deranging  all  the  economy  of  my  extempore  desk,  and 
well-nigh  upsetting  the  inkstand.  Very  much  frightened  is  my 
pretty  pet,  the  arrantest  coward  that  ever  walked  upon  four  legs  I 
And  so  she  avenges  herself,  as  cowards  are  wont  to  do,  by  follow- 
ing the  cows,  at  safe  distance,  as  soon  as  they  are  fairly  past,  arid 
beginning  to  bark  amain  when  they  are  nearly  out  of  sight.  Then 
follows  a  motley  group  of  the  same  nature,  colts,  yearlings,  calves, 
heifers,  with  a  shouting  boy  and  his  poor  shabby  mongrel  cur  for 
driver.  The  poor  cur  wants  to  play  with  Fanchon,  but  Fanchon, 
besides  being  a  coward,  is  also  a  beauty,  and  holds  her  state  ; 
although,  I  think,  if  he  could  but  stay  long  enough,  that  the  good- 
humor  of  tlie  poor  merry  creature  would  prove  infectious,  and  be- 
guile the  little  lady  into  a  game  of  romps.  Lastly,  appears  the 
most  solemn  troop  of  all,  a  grave  company  of  geese  and  goslings, 
with  the  gander  at  their  head,  marching  with  the  decorum  and 
dignity  proper  to  the  birds  who  saved  Rome.  Fanchon,  who 
once  had  an  affair  with  a  gander,  in  which  she  was  notably 
worsted,  retreats  out  of  sight,  and  ensconoes  herself  between  me 
and  the  tree. 

Besides  these  mere  passing  droves,  we  have  a  scattered  little 
flock  of  ewes  and  lambs  belonging  to  an  industrious  widow  on  the 


02  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

hill,  and  tended  by  two  sunburnt  smiling  children,  her  son  and 
daughter  ;  a  pretty  pair,  as  innocent  as  the  poor  sheep  they  watch 
beside,  never  seen  apart.  And  peasants  returning  from  their 
work,  and  a  stray  urchin  bird's-nesting ;  and  that  will  make  a 
complete  catalogue  of  the  frequenters  of  our  lane — except,  indeed, 
that  now  and  then  a  village  youth  and  village  maiden  will  steal 
along  the  sheltered  path.  Perhaps  they  come  to  listen  to  the 
nightingales,  for  which  the  place  is  famous ;  perhaps  they  come 
to  listen  to  the  voice  which  each  prefers  to  all  the  nightingales 
that  ever  sang — Avho  knows  ? 

Such  are  our  passers-by.  Sometimes,  however,  we  have  what 
I  was  about  to  call  settled  inhabitants,  in  the  shape  of  a  camp 
of  gipsys. 

Just  where  the  lane,  enlivened  by  a  rustic  bridge,  suddenly 
expands  to  nearly  double  its  proper  width,  a  nook  appears,  so  dry, 
so  snug,  so  shady,  so  cozy,  that  it  is  almost  worth  while  to  be  a 
gipsy  to  live  in  it.  Here,  at  almost  every  season,  between  May 
and  November,  may  be  seen  two  or  three  low  tents  with  a  cart 
or  so  drawn  up  under  the  hedge,  an  old  horse  and  sundry  donkeys 
grazing  round  about.  At  safe  distance  from  the  encampment 
appears  a  fire,  glimmering  and  vapory  by  day,  glowing  into  ari 
intensity  of  blaze  and  comfort  in  the  twilight.  Sometimes  a  pot 
is  hung  on  by  the  primitive  contrivance  of  three  sticks  united  at 
the  top,  sometimes  a  copper  kettle  dazzlingly  bright  and  clean, 
and  around  it  the  usual  group  of  picturesque  women  and  children. 
The  men,  who  carry  on  a  small  trade  in  forest  ponies,  are  seldom 
visible  at  the  camp  :  the  children  make  baskets,  the  women  sell 
them  and  tell  fortunes  ;  the  former  calling  affording  an  excuse  and 
an  introduction  to  the  less  ostensible,  but  not  less  profitable  craft. 

Baskets  they  make  and  baskets  they  sell,  at  about  double  the 
price  at  which  they  might  be  bought  at  the  dearest  shop  in  the 
good  town  of  Belford  Regis  ;  of  this  I  am  myself  a  living  instance, 
having  been  talked  into  buying  a  pair  at  that  rate  only  the  last 
Saturday  that  ever  fell. 

I  confess  to  liking  the  gipsys  :  strange,  wild,  peculiar  people, 
whose  origin,  whose  history,  whose  very  language  is  a  mystery  I 
I  do  not  like  them  the  less  that  I  have  never  experienced  at  their 
hands  the  slightest  incivility  or  the  most  trifling  wrong — for  this 
affair  of  the  baskets  can  hardly  be  called  such,  it  being  wholly  at 
my  option  to  buy  or  to  refuse. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  93 

Last  Saturday  I  happened  to  be  sitting  on  a  fallen  tree  some- 
what weary  ;  my  little  damsel  working  as  usual  at  the  other  end, 
and  Fanchon  balancing  herself  on  the  trunk  between  us  ;  the 
curls  of  her  brown  coat — she  is  entirely  brown — turning  into  gold 
as  the  sunshine  played  upon  them  through  the  leaves. 

In  this  manner  were  we  disposed,  when  a  gipsy,  with  a  pair 
of  light  baskets  in  her  hand,  came  and  offered  them  for  sale.  She 
was  a  middle-aged  woman,  who,  in  spite  of  her  wandering  life, 
perhaps,  because  of  that  hardy  out-of-door  life,  had  retained  much 
of  her  early  beauty  ;  the  flashing  eyes,  the  pearly  teeth,  the  ruddy 
cheeks,  the  fine  erect  figure.  It  happened  that,  not  wanting 
them,  my  companion  had  rejected  these  identical  baskets  when 
brought  to  our  door  in  the  morning.  She  told  me  so,  and  I  quietly 
declined  them.  My  friend  the  gipsy  apparently  gave  the  matter 
up,  and  claiming  me  as  an  old  acquaintance,  began  to  inquire 
after  my  health,  and  fell  into  the  pleasantest  strain  of  conversa- 
tion possible  ;  spoke  of  my  father,  who,  she  said,  had  been  kind 
to  her  and  to  her  tribe  (no  doubt  she  said  truly ;  he  was  kind  to 
every  body,  and  had  a  liking  for  the  wandering  race) ;  spoke  of 
her  children  at  the  gipsy  school  in  Dorsetshire  ;  of  the  excellent 
Mr.  Crabbe,  the  friend  of  her  people,  at  Southampton  ;  then  she 
began  strokino-  Fanchon  (who,  actually  to  my  astonishment,  per- 
mitted the  liberty  ;  in  general  she  suffers  no  one  to  touch  her 
that  is  not  gentleman  or  lady)  ;  Fanchon  she  stroked,  and  of 
Flush,  the  dear  old  dog,  now  lying  under  the  rose-tree,  she 
talked ;  then,  to  leave  no  one  unpropitiated,  she  threw  out  a 
word  of  pleasant  augury,  a  sort  of  gratuitous  fortune-telling,  to  the 
hemmer  of  flounces  ;  then  she  attacked  me  again  with  old  recol- 
lections, trusting,  with  singular  knowledge  of  human  nature,  to 
the  power  of  the  future  upon  the  young,  and  of  the  past  upon  the 
old — to  me  she  spoke  of  happy  memories,  to  my  companion  of 
happiness  to  come  ;  and  so  (how  could  I  help  it  ?)  I  bought  the 
baskets. 

I  seem  to  have  wandered  pretty  widely  from  my  subject ;  but 
the  old  dramatists  loved  these  commoners  of  nature.  Broome, 
in  the  "  Jovial  Crew,"  has  constructed  a  pleasant  and  genial 
comedy  out  of  no  higher  materials,  and  our  authors,  themselves, 
in  "  Beggar's  Bush,"  have  made  most  dramatic  and  effective 
use  of  these  outlawed  wanderers,  and  would,  I  am  sure,  have 
been  the  last  to  blame  me  for  dallying  in  their  company. 


94  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

I  extract  some  of  the  charming  lyrics  interspersed  throtigh  their 
plays,  not  starting  from  them  as  Ben  Jonson's  do,  a  shining 
gem  in  a  dusky  mine,  but  incorporate  with  the  golden  ore  as  rich 
and  precious  as  themselves. 

FROM  THE  "  MAID'S  TRAGEDY." 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse, 

Of  the  dismal  yew  ; 
Maidens  willow  branches  bear, 

Say  I  died  true. 
My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm, 

From  my  hour  of  birth  ; 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth. 

FROM  THE  "LITTLE  FRENCH  LAWYER." 

This  way,  this  way,  come  and  hear. 
You  that  hold  these  pleasures  dear ; 
Fill  your  cars  with  our  sweet  sound. 
While  we  melt  the  frozen  ground. 
This  way,  come  :  make  haste,  0  fair  ! 
Let  your  clear  eyes  gild  the  air. 
Come  and  bless  us  with  j'our  sight; 
This  way,  this  way,  seek  delight  ! 

FROM  THE  "ELDER  BROTHER." 

Beauty  clear  and  fair, 

Where  the  air 
Rather  like  a  perfume  dwells ; 

Where  the  violet  and  the  rose. 

Their  blue  veins  in  blush  disclose, 
And  come  to  honor  nothing  else. 

Where  to  live  near 

And  planted  there, 
Is  to  live,  and  still  live  new; 

Where  to  gain  a  favor  is 

More  than  light,  perpetual  bliss, 
Make  me  live  by  serving  you. 

Dear,  back  again  recall, 
To  this  light : 

A  stranger  to  himself  and  all. 

Both  tlie  wonder  and  the  story. 
Shall  be  yours  and  eke  the  glory; 

I  am  your  perpetual  thrall. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  95 


FROM  "  VALENTINIAN." 

The  following  songs  are  strikingly  illustrative  of  a  peculiarity 
that  has  often  struck  me  in  reading  the  dramas  of  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  ;  the  absence  of  any  mark  of  antiquity,  either  in 
the  diction  or  the  construction.  Hardly  any  thing  in  their  verse 
smacks  of  the  age.  They  were  cotemporary  with  Ben  Jonson, 
and  yet  how  rugged  is  his  English  compared  with  their  fluent 
and  courtly  tongue  I  They  were  almost  cotemporary  with  a 
greater  than  he — a  greater  far  than  any  or  all,  and  yet  Shak- 
speare's  blank  verse  has  an  antique  sound  when  read  after  theirs. 
Dryden,  himself  so  perfect  a  model  as  regards  style,  says  in  one 
of  those  master-pieces  of  criticism,  the  prefaces  to  his  plays,  that 
in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  our  language  has  attained  to  its  per- 
fection. I  doubt  if  it  have  much  improved  since,  nor  has  it 
for  the  uses  of  poetry  very  materially  altered.  This  "  Invocation 
to  Sleep"  might,  for  diction  and  rhythm,  have  been  written  to- 
day, always  supposing  that  we  had  any  body  capable  of  writing 
it. 

Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes. 
Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
On  this  afflicted  Prince !     Fall  like  a  cloud 
In  gentle  showers ;  give  nothing  that  is  loud 
Or  painful  to  his  slumbers;  easy,  light. 
And  as  a  purling  stream  thou  son  of  night 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses ;  sing  his  pain, 
Like  hollow-murmuring  wind  or  silver  rain  ! 
Into  this  Prince,  gently,  oh  gently  slide, 
And  kiss  him  into  slumbers  like  a  bride  ! 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  next. 

God  Lya)us,  ever  young. 
Ever  honored,  ever  sung ; 
Stained  with  blood  of  lusty  grapes. 
In  a  thousand  lusty  shapes. 
Dance  ui)oii  the  mazer's  brim, 
In  the  crimson  liquor  swim  ; 
From  the  plenteous  hand  divine. 
Let  a  river  run  with  wine. 

God  of  youth,  let  this  day  hero 

Enter  neither  can;  nf)r  fear ! 


96  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


FROM  "ROLLO." 

Take,  oh,  take  those  lips  away, 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn  ; 
And  those  eyes,  tlie  l>reak  of  day. 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn. 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, — 
Seals  of  love,  though  sealed  in  vain. 

Hide,  oh,  hide  those  hills  of  snow, 

Which  thy  frozen  bosom  bears, 
On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow, 

Are  yet  of  those  that  April  wears. 
But  first  set  my  poor  heart  free, 
Boimd  in  those  icy  chains  by  thee. 

We  are  irresistibly  reminded  of  the  Penseroso  in  reading  the 
fine  song  that  follows,  as  we  are  of  Comus  in  the  "  Faithful  Shep- 
herdess." That  Milton  had  Fletcher  in  his  thoughts  can  not  be 
doubted  ;  but  the  great  epic  poet  added  so  much  from  his  own 
rich  store,  that  the  imitation  may  well  be  pardoned  by  the  ad- 
mirers of  both,  the  rather  that  the  earlier  bard  stands  the  test  of 
such  a  comparison  well.  Both  ai"e  crowned  poets  ;  but  they 
wear  their  bays  with  a  difference. 

FROM  THE  "NICE  VALOR,  OR  THE  PASSIONATE  MADMAN." 

Hence  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights, 

Wherein  you  speed  your  folly  ! 
There's  naught  in  this  life  sweet, 
If  man  were  wise  to  see  't. 

But  only  melancholy. 

Oh  sweetest  melancholy ! 

Welcome,  folded  arms,  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that's  fastened  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chained  up  without  a  sound  ! 

Fountain-heads  and  pathless  groves. 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves  ! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowis 
Are  warmly  housed  save  bats  and  owls  ! 

A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan, 

These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon. 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley, 
Nothing's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  97 

THE  SATYR'S  SPEECH,  FROM  THE  "  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS." 

Thorough  yon  same  bending  plain, 
That  flings  his  arms  down  to  the  main, 
And  thro'  these  thick  woods  have  I  run 
Whose  bottom  never  kissed  the  sun, 
Since  the  lusty  Spring  began. 
All  to  please  my  master  Pan, 
Have  I  trotted  without  rest 
To  get  him  fruit ;  for  at  a  feast 
He  entertains  this  coming  night 
His  paramour,  the  Syrinx  bright. 
But  behold,  a  fairer  sight ! 
By  that  heavenly  form  of  thine, 
Brightest  fair,  thou  art  divine ; 
Sprung  from  great  immortal  race 
Of  the  gods ;  for  in  thy  face 
Shines  more  awful  majest}', 
Than  dull  weak  mortality 
Dare  with  misty  eyes  behold 
And  live  !     Therefore  on  this  mold 
Lowly  do  I  bend  my  knee 
In  worship  of  thy  deity. 
Deign  it,  goddess,  from  my  hand 
To  receive  whate'er  this  land 
From  her  fertile  womb  doth  send 
Of  her  choice  fruits ;  and  but  lend 
Belief  to  that  the  satyr  tells : 
Fairer  by  the  famous  wells 
To  this  present  day  ne'er  grew, 
Never  better  nor  more  true. 
Here  be  grapes,  whose  lusty  blood 
Is  the  learned  poet's  good ; 
Sweeter  yet  did  never  crown 
The  head  of  Bacchus ;  nuts  more  brown 
Than  the  squirrel  whose  teeth  crack  'em  ! 
Deign,  oh !  fairest  fair,  to  take  'em ! 
For  these  black-eyed  Dryoi)e 
Hath  oftentimes  commanded  me 
With  my  clasped  knee  to  climb : 
See,  how  well  the  lusty  time 
Hath  decked  tlieir  rising  cheeks  in  red, 
Such  as  on  your  lips  is  spread. 
Here  be  berries  for  a  queen, 
Some  be  red,  some  be  green ; 
These  are  of  that  luscious  meat 
The  great  god  Pan  himself  doth  cat. 
All  these,  and  what  the  woods  can  yield, 
The  hanging  mountain,  or  the  field 
E 


98  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

I  fively  ofCcr,  and  ere  long 

Will  bring  you  more,  more  sweet  and  strong; 

'Till  when  humbly  leave  I  take, 

Lest  the  great  Pan  do  awake, 

That  sleej)ing  lies  in  a  deep  glado. 

Under  a  broad  beech's  shade. 

I  must  go,  I  must  run, 

Swifter  than  the  fiery  sun. 

The  charming  pastoral  from  whence  this  beautiful  speech  is 
taken,  was  irrevocably  condemned  in  the  theater  on  the  first  and 
only  night  of  representation  ;  which  catastrophe,  added  to  a  sim- 
ilar one  that  befell  Congreve's  best  comedy,  "  The  Way  of  the 
World,"  both  authors  being  at  the  time  in  the  very  flood-tide  of 
popularity,  has  been  an  unspeakable  comfort  to  unsuccessful 
dramatists  ever  since.  I  recall  it  chiefly  to  mention  the  hearty 
spirit  with  which  two  of  the  most  eminent  of  Fletcher's  friendly 
rivals  came  to  the  rescue  with  laudatory  verses.  The  circum- 
stance does  so  much  honor  to  all  parties,  and  some  of  the  lines 
are  so  good,  that  I  can  not  help  quoting  them  ;  George  Chapman 
says  that  the  poem — 

Renews  the  golden  world,  and  holds  through  all 

The  holy  laws  of  homely  Pastoral ; 

Where  flowers  and  founts  and  nymphs  and  serai-gods 

And  all  the  graces  find  their  old  abodes  ; 

Where  forests  flourish  but  in  endless  verse. 

And  meadows,  nothing  fit  for  purchasers  : 

This  iron  age 

(Think  of  that  in  the  days  of  James  the  First  I) 

This  iron  age  that  eats  itself  will  never 
Bite  at  your  golden  world,  that  others  ever 
Loved  as  itself 

Ben  Jonson,  first  characterizing  the  audience  after  a  fashion  by 
no  means  complimentary,  says  that  the  play  failed  because  it 
wanted  the  laxity  of  moral  and  of  language  which  they  expected 
and  desired.     He  continues  : — 

I  that  am  glad  thy  innocence  was  thy  guilt, 
And  wish  that  all  the  muses'  blood  were  spilt 
In  such  a  martyrdom,  to  vex  their  eyes. 
Do  crown  thy  murdered  poem,  which  shall  rise 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  99 

A  glorified  work  to  time,  when  fire 

Or  moths  shall  eat  what  all  these  fools  admire. 

For  the  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  that  mine  of  superb 
and  regal  poetry,  I  have  no  room  now.  They  must  remain  un- 
touched. 


100  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


IX. 

FASHIONABLE    POETS. 

WINTHROP    MACKWORTII    TRAED. 

It  is  now  nearly  thirty  years  ago  that  two  youths  appeared  at 
Cambridge,  of  such  literary  and  poetical  promise  as  the  Univer- 
Bity  had  not  known  since  the  days  of  Gray.  What  is  rarer  still, 
the  promise  was  kept.  One  of  these  "  marvelous  boys"  turned 
out  a  man  of  world-wide  renown — the  spirited  poet,  the  splendid 
orator,  the  brilliant  historian,  the  delightful  essayist, — in  a  word, 
Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  now,  I  suppose,  incontestably  our 
greatest  living  writer.     The  other  was  the  subject  of  this  paper. 

Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed  (I  wish  it  had  pleased  his  god- 
fathers and  godmothers  to  bestow  upon  him  a  plain  English  Chris- 
tian name,  and  spare  him  and  me  the  vulgar  abomination  of  this 
conglomeration  of  inharmonious  sounds  I)  Winthrop  Mackworth 
Praed  was  born  jn  London,  in  the  beginning  of  this  century,  of 
parents  belonging  to  the  great  banking-house,  which  still  remains 
in  the  family.  Sent  early  to  Eton,  he,  while  yet  a  school-boy, 
followed  the  example  of  Canning,  who  appears  to  have  been  the 
object  of  his  emulation  in  more  points  than  one,  and  in  conjunc- 
tion with  Mr.  Moultrie  set  up  a  paper  called  the  "  Etonian,"  to 
which  he  was  the  principal  contributor,  and  which  was  so  suc- 
cessful that  it  went  through  four  editions,  and  established  for  the 
chief  writer  a  high  reputation  for  precocious  talent.  At  Cam- 
bridge this  reputation  was  more  than  sustained.  He  was  the 
pride  and  glory  of  Trinity,  and  left  college  with  an  almost  unpre- 
cedented number  of  prizes,  for  Greek  ode  and  Latin  epigram. 
Even  the  greater  world  of  London,  where  University  fame  so 
often  melts  away  and  is  seen  no  more,  was  equally  favorable  to 
Mr.  Praed.  He  and  his  friendly  rival,  Mr.  Macaulay,  gave  their 
valuable  assistance  to  "  Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine,"  and  every 
fresh  article  made  its  impression.     He  wrote  aLso  in  the  "New 


A    LITERAEY    LIFE.  101 

Monthly,"  and  in  the  annuals,  then  seen  on  every  table,  with 
still  increasing  brilliancy  ;  contributed  pungent  poUtical  satire  to 
other  journals,  and  finally  entered  Parliament  with  such  hopes 
and  expectations  as  his  talents  might  well  warrant,  but  which 
have  seldom  been  excited  by  an  untried  member. 

In  the  House  of  Commons  he  did  quite  enough  to  justify  the 
warmest  anticipations  of  his  friends,  and  to  earn  for  himself  the 
name  of  "  a  rising  man,"  that  most  auspicious  of  all  names  to  a 
political  aspirant. 

What  he  might  have  become  had  life  been  spared  it  were  now 
vain  to  conjecture.  He  married  happily  ;  he  died  young.  Light, 
lively,  brilliant,  the  darling  of  every  society  that  he  entered,  he 
was  yet  most  beloved  by  those  who  knew  him  best.  To  me  it 
seems  that  had  he  outlived  the  impetuosity  of  youth,  he  would 
have  become  something  higher  and  better  than  a  political  parti- 
san, however  clever,  or  a  fashionable  poet,  however  elegant. 
There  was  through  all  his  poetry — and  it  is  its  deepest  although 
not  its  most  obvious  charm — a  love  of  the  genuine  and  the  true, 
a  scorn  for  the  false  and  the  pretending,  which  is  the  foundation 
of  all  that  is  really  good  in  eloquence  as  well  as  in  poetry,  in 
conduct  and  in  character,  as  well  as  in  art.  The  germ  of  the 
patriot  and  the  statesman  is  to  be  found  in  the  love  of  truth  and 
the  hatred  of  pretense  ;  and  never  were  they  more  developed 
than  in  the  poems  of  Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed. 

That  these  poems  are  the  most  graceful  and  finished  verses  of 
society  that  can  be  found  in  our  language,  it  is  impossible  to 
doubt.  At  present  they  are  so  scarce,  that  the  volume  from  which 
I  transcribe  the  greater  part  of  the  following  extracts  is  an  Amer- 
ican collection,  procured  with  considerable  difficulty  and  delay 
from  the  United  States.  Others  of  the  poems  are  taken  from  his 
own  manuscripts,  most  kindly  lent  to  me  by  one  of  his  nearest 
connections,  whom  I  am  happy  enough  to  call  my  friend  ;  and 
one  or  two  of  the  charades  I  have  copied  from  the  "  Penny  Mag- 
azine" of  the  author's  early  friend,  Mr.  Charles  Knight,  where 
they  are  strangely  enough  called  enigmas. 

THE  VICAR. 

Some  years  ago,  ere  Time  and  Tasto 

Had  turned  our  pari.sh  topsy-turvy, 
When  Darnel  Park  wa.s  Darnel  Waste, 

And  roads  as  little  known  as  scurvy, 


102  K  ECO  L  LECTIONS    OF 

The  man  who  lost  his  way  between 
St.  Mary's  Hill  and  Sandy  Thicket, 

AVas  always  shown  across  the  Green, 
And  guided  to  the  Parson's  wicket. 

Back  flew  the  bolt  of  lissom  lath ; 

Fair  Margaret  in  her  tidy  kirtle 
Led  the  lorn  traveler  up  the  i)ath. 

Through  clean-clipt  rows  of  box  and  myrtle ; 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

Upon  the  parlor-steps  collected, 
Wagged  all  their  tails  and  seemed  to  say: 

"  Our  master  knows  you ;  you're  expected." 

Up  rose  the  Reverend  Doctor  Brown, 

Up  rose  the  Doctor's  "winsome  marrow;" 
The  lady  laid  her  knitting  down, 

Iler  husband  clasped  his  ponderous  barrow 
"Whate'er  the  stranger's  caste  or  creed, 

Pundit  or  papist,  saint  or  sinner. 
He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed. 

And  welcome  for  himself  and  dinner. 

If,  when  he  reached  his  journey's  end. 

And  warmed  himself  in  court  or  college, 
He  had  not  gained  an  honest  friend. 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  knowledge ; 
If  he  departed  as  he  came, 

AVith  no  new  light  on  love  or  liquor, 
Good  sooth  the  traveler  was  to  blame, 

And  not  the  Vicarage  or  the  Vicar. 

His  talk  was  like  a  stream  which  runs 

With  rapid  change  from  rocks  to  roses  j 
It  slipped  from  politics  to  puns ; 

It  passed  from  Mahomet  to  Moses ; 
Beginning  wich  the  laws  which  keep 

The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses, 
And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 

For  dressing  eels  or  shoeing  horses. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  divine, 

Of  loud  dissent  the  mortal  terror ; 
And  when  bj'  dint  of  page  and  line. 

He  'stablished  truth  or  startled  error, 
The  Baptist  found  him  far  too  deep ; 

The  Deist  sighed  with  saving  sorrow, 
And  the  lean  Levite  went  to  sleep 

And  dreamt  of  eating  pork  to-morrow. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  103 

His  sermon  never  said  or  showed 

That  earth  is  foul,  that  Heaven  is  gracious, 
Without  refreshment  on  the  road 

From  Jerome  or  from  Athanasius; 
And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspired 

The  hand  and  head  that  penned  and  planned  them, 
For  all  who  understood  admired, 

And  some  who  did  not  understand  them. 

He  wrote  too,  in  a  quiet  way. 

Small  treatises  and  smaller  verses. 
And  sage  remarks  on  chalk  and  clay, 

And  hints  to  noble  lords  and  nurses; 
True  histories  of  last  year's  ghost ; 

Lines  to  a  ringlet  or  a  turban. 
And  trifles  for  the  "  Morning  Post," 

And  nothings  for  Sylvanus  Urban. 

He  did  not  think  all  mischief  fair, 

Although  he  had  a  knack  of  joking; 
He  did  not  make  himself  a  bear. 

Although  he  had  a  taste  for  smoking. 
And  when  religious  sects  ran  mad 

He  held,  in  spite  of  all  his  learning, 
That  if  a  man's  belief  is  bad 

It  will  not  be  improved  by  burning. 

And  he  was  kind  and  loved  to  sit 

In  the  low  hut  or  garnished  cottage, 
And  praise  the  farmer's  homely  wit. 

And  share  the  widow's  homelier  pottage. 
At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild, 

And  when  his  hand  unbarred  the  shutter, 
The  clammy  lips  of  fever  smiled 

The  welcome  that  they  could  not  utter. 

He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 

Of  Julius  Cajsar  or  of  Venus  ; 
From  him  I  learned  the  rule  of  three, 

Cat's-cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Quae  genus; 
I  used  to  singe  his  powdered  wig, 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  a  jig 

When  he  began  to  quote  Augustine. 

Alack  the  change  !     In  vain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  which  my  boyhood  trifled ; 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook, 

The  trees  I  climbed,  the  beds  I  rifled  ! 


104  RECOLLECT IONS     OF 

The  cliurch  is  larger  than  before, 

You  reach  it  by  a  carriage  entry ; 
It  holds  three  hundred  people  more, 

And  pews  are  fitted  for  tlie  gentry. 

Sit  in  the  Vicar's  seat :  you'll  hear 

The  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian ; 
■Whose  hand  is  white,  whose  voice  is  clear, 

Whose  tone  is  very  Ciceronian. 
Where  is  the  old  man  laid  1     Look  down 

And  construe  on  the  slab  before  you — 
"  Hie  jacet  Gulielmns  Brown, 

Vir  nulla  non  donandus  laura." 

The  man  who  wrote  the  above  admirable  portrait  was  as  good 
as  he  was  clever.     The  next  has  equal  merit  : 

QUINCE. 

Near  a  small  village  in  the  West, 

Where  many  very  worthy  people 
Eat,  drink,  play  whist,  and  do  their  best 

To  guard  from  evil  church  and  steeple, 
There  stood — alas,  it  stands  no  more! — 

A  tenement  of  brick  and  plaster. 
Of  which,  for  forty  years  and  four. 

My  good  friend  Quince  was  lord  and  master. 

Welcome  was  he  in  hut  and  hall, 

To  maids  and  matrons,  peers  and  peasants ; 
lie  won  the  sympathies  of  all 

By  making  puns  and  making  presents. 
Though  all  the  parish  was  at  strife, 

He  kept  his  counsel  and  his  carriage, 
And  laughed,  and  loved  a  quiet  life. 

And  shrunk  from  chancery-suits  and  marriage. 

Sound  was  his  claret  and  his  head. 

Warm  was  his  double  ale  and  feelings ; 
His  partners  at  the  whist-club  said 

That  he  was  faultless  in  his  dealings. 
He  went  to  church  but  once  a-weck, 

Yet  Dr.  Poundtext  always  found  him 
An  upright  man,  who  studied  Greek, 

And  liked  to  see  his  friends  aroimd  him. 

Asylums,  hospitals  and  schools 

He  used  to  swear  were  made  to  cozen ; 
All  who  subscribed  to  them  were  fools — 

And  he  subscribed  to  half-a-dozen. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  105 

It  was  his  doctrine  that  the  poor 

Were  always  able,  never  willing ; 
And  so  the  beggar  at  the  door 

Had  first  abuse  and  then  a  shilling. 

Some  public  principles  he  had, 

But  was  no  flatterer  nor  fretter ; 
He  rapped  his  box  when  things  were  bad, 

And  said,  I  can  not  make  them  better. 
And  much  he  lothed  the  patriot's  snort, 

And  much  he  scorned  the  placeman's  snuffle, 
And  cut  the  fiercest  quarrels  short 

With,  "  Patience,  gentlemen,  and  shuffle  !" 

For  full  ten  years  his  pointer,  Speed, 

Had  couched  beneath  his  master's  table. 
For  twice  ten  years  his  old  white  steed 

Had  fattened  in  his  master's  stable. 
Old  Quince  averred  upon  his  troth 

They  were  the  ugliest  beasts  in  Devon ; 
And  none  knew  why  he  fed  them  both 

With  his  own  hands,  sis  days  in  seven. 

Whene'er  they  heard  his  ring  or  knock. 

Quicker  than  thought  the  village  slatterns 
Flung  down  the  novel,  smoothed  the  frock, 

And  took  up  Mrs.  Glasse  or  patterns. 
Alice  was  studying  baker's  bills; 

Louisa  looked  the  queen  of  knitters ; 
Jane  happened  to  be  hemming  frills ; 

And  Nell  by  chance  was  making  fritters. 

But  all  was  vain.     And  while  decay 

Came  like  a  tranquil  moonlight  o'er  him. 
And  found  him  gouty  still  and  gay. 

With  no  fair  nurse  to  bless  or  bore  him ; 
His  rugged  smile  and  easy  chair, 

His  dread  of  matrimonial  lectures. 
His  wig,  his  stick,  his  powdered  hair. 

Were  themes  for  very  strange  conjectures. 

Some  sages  thought  the  stars  above 

Had  crazed  him  with  excess  of  knowledge ; 
Some  heard  he  had  been  crossed  in  love 

Before  he  came  away  from  college ; 
Some  darkly  hinted  that  Ilis  Grace 

Did  nothing,  great  or  small,  without  him ; 
Some  whispered,  with  a  solemn  face. 

That  there  was  something  odd  about  him. 
n* 


lOG  KE  COL  LECTIONS    OK 

I  found  him  at  three  score  and  ten 

A  single  man,  but  bent  quite  double, 
Sickness  was  coming  on  him  tlien 

To  talie  him  from  a  world  of  trouble. 
He  prosed  of  sliding  down  the  hill, 

Discovered  he  grew  older  daily  ; 
One  frosty  day  he  made  his  will, 

The  next  he  sent  for  Dr.  Baillie. 

And  so  he  lived,  and  so  he  died ; 

When  last  I  sat  beside  his  pillow 
He  shook  my  hand:    "Ah  me!"   he  cried, 

'Penelope  must  wear  the  willow  ! 
Tell  her  I  hugged  her  rosy  chain 

While  life  was  flickering  in  the  socket, 
And  say  that  when  I  call  again 

I'll  bring  a  license  in  my  pocket. 

"  I've  left  my  house  and  grounds  to  Fag, 

(I  hope  his  master's  shoes  will  suit  him !) 
And  I've  bequeathed  to  you  my  nag, 

To  feed  him  for  my  sake,  or  shoot  him. 
The  vicar's  wife  will  take  old  Fox ; 

She'll  find  him  an  uncommon  mouser, 
And  let  her  husband  have  my  box, 

My  Bible,  and  my  Assmanshauser. 

"  Whether  I  ought  to  die  or  not 

My  doctors  can  not  quite  determine ; 
It's  only  clear  that  I  shall  rot 

And  be,  like  Priam,  food  for  vermin. 
My  debts  are  paid.     But  Nature's  debt 

Almost  escaped  my  recollection  1 
Tom,  we  shall  meet  again ;   and  yet, 

I  can  not  leave  you  my  direction !" 

The  next  poem,  "which  describes  a  first  flirtation  (for  it  hardly 
deserves  the  name  of  first  love),  is  as  true  as  if  it  had  been  writ- 
ten in  prose  by  Jane  Austen. 

THE  BELLE   OF   THE  BALL. 

Years,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams. 

Had  been  of  being  wise  or  witty ; 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes. 

Or  yawned  o'er  this  infernal  '  Chitty :' 
Years,  years  ago,  while  all  my  joys 

Were  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly, 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 


A    LITEKARY    LIFE.  107 

I  saw  her  at  a  country  ball, 

There  where  the  sound  of  flute  and  fiddle, 
Gave  signal  sweet,  in  that  old  hall, 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle ; 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far, 

Of  all  that  sets  young  hearts  romancing, 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star. 

And  when  she  danced — Oh,  heaven  !   her  dancing ! 

Dark  was  her  hair ;   her  hand  was  white ; 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender ; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light ; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender. 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile. 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows ; 
I  thought  'twas  Venus  from  her  isle. 

And  wondered  where  she'd  left  her  sps|,rrows! 

She  talked  of  politics  or  prayers. 

Of  Southey's  prose,  or  Wordsworth's  sonnets. 
Of  daggers,  or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles,  or  the  last  new  bonnets  ; 
By  candle-light,  at  twelve  o'clock. 

To  me  it  mattered  not  a  tittle, 
If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

I  might  have  thought  they  murmured  Little. 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  for  the  Sunday  journal. 
My  mother  laughed ;    I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling. 
My  father  frowned ;   but  how  should  gout 

Find  any  happiness  in  kneeling  1 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  dean, 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic ; 
She  had  one  brother  just  thirteen. 

Whose  color  was  extremely  hectic ; 
Her  grandmother,  for  many  a  year. 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty ; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer, 

And  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county. 

But  titles  and  the  three  per  cents, 

And  mortgages  and  great  relations. 
And  India  Bonds,  and  tithes,  and  rents, 

Oh  !   what  are  they  to  love's  sensations  1 


108  It  E  C  O  L  L  E  C  T  IONS    OF 

Black  eyes,  fair  foreheads,  dusteriiig  locks ; 

8iu'li  wealth,  such  honors  Cupid  chooses; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  stocks, 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  Muses. 

She  sketched :   the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach 

Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shading; 
She  botanized :   I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading ; 
She  warbled  Handel :   it  was  grand, 

She  made  the  Catalani  jealous  ; 
She  touched  the  organ:   I  could  stand 

For  hours  and  hours  and  blow  the  bellows. 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home, 

Well  filled  with  all  an  album's  glories ; 
Paintings  of  butterflies  and  Rome ; 

Patterns  for  trimming ;  Persian  stories ; 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo ; 

Fierce  odes  to  famine  and  to  slaughter, 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Le  Boo, 

And  recipes  for  elder-water. 

And  she  was  flattered,  worshiped,  bored, 

Her  steps  were  watched,  her  dress  was  noted, 
Her  poodle  dog  was  quite  adored. 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted. 
She  laughed,  and  every  heart  was  glad 

As  if  the  taxes  were  abolished ; 
She  frowned,  and  every  look  was  sad. 

As  if  the  opera  were  demolished. 

She  smiled  on  many  just  for  fun — 

I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it ; 
I  was  the  first,  the  only  one, 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute. 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so, 

In  phrase  that  was  divinely  molded  ; — 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand,  and  oh  ! 

How  neatly  all  her  notes  were  folded. 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver ; 
A  rosebud  and  a  pair  of  gloves, 

And  "Fly  not  yet,"  upon  the  river; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir  ; 

Some  hopes  of  dying  brokenhearted  ; 
A  miniature  ;    a  lock  of  hair  ; 

The  usual  vows ; — and  then  we  parted. 


A    LITEKARY    LIFE.  109 

We  parted : — mouths  and  years  rolled  by, 

We  met  again,  some  summers  after ; 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh  ! 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter ! 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers  ; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room  belle, 

But  only  Mistress — something — Rogers  ! 

The  political  satire  is  equally  good-humored,  equally  charae- 
teristic,  and  equally  clever,  perhaps  cleverer — if  that  can  be — 
than  these  specimens.  Some  of  the  objects  of  that  keen  and 
pungent  verse  still  remain  alive,  though  many  are,  like  the 
author,  removed  from  this  transitory  scene.  I  abstain,  therefore, 
from  inserting  what  might  by  possibility  cause  pain.  The  follow- 
ing cavalier  version  of  the  great  fight  of  Marston  Moor  is  trans- 
cribed from  the  author's  own  manuscript,  apparently  the  first 
sketch.  It  is  wonderful  how  little  that  fertile  and  fluent  pen 
found  to  alter  or  to  amend. 

To  horse  !  to  horse  I  Sir  Nicholas,  the  clarion's  note  is  high ! 
To  horse !  to  horse !  Sir  Nicholas,  the  big  drum  makes  reply ! 
Ere  this  hath  Lucas  marched,  with  his  gallant  cavaliers. 
And  the  bray  of  Rupert's  trumpets  grows  fainter  in  our  ears. 
To  horse  !  to  horse  !  Sir  Nicholas !     White  Guy  is  at  the  door, 
And  the  raven  whets  his  beak  o'er  the  field  of  Marston  Moor. 

Up  rose  the  Lady  Alice,  from  her  brief  and  broken  prayer, 

And  she  brought  a  silken  banner  down  the  narrow  turret-stair ; 

Oh !  many  were  the  tears  that  those  radiant  eyes  had  shed. 

As  she  traced  the  bright  word  "  Glory"  in  tlie  gay  and  glancing  thread ; 

And  mournful  was  the  smile  which  o'er  those  lovely  features  ran, 

As  she  said,  "  It  is  your  lady's  gift,  unfurl  it  in  the  van !" 

"It  shall  flutter,  noble  wench,  where  the  best  and  boldest  ride. 
Midst  the  steel-clad  files  of  Skippon,  the  black  dragoons  of  Pride ; 
The  recreant  heart  of  Fairfax  shall  feel  a  sicklier  qualm, 
And  the  rebel  lips  of  Oliver  give  out  a  louder  psalm  ; 
When  they  see  my  lady's  gewgaw  flaunt  proudly  on  their  wing, 
And  hear  her  loyal  soldier's  shout,  "  For  God  and  for  the  King." 

'Tis  noon.    The  ranks  are  broken,  along  the  royal  lino 

They  fly,  the  braggarts  of  the  court !  the  bullies  of  the  Rhine  ! 

Stout  Langdalc's  cheer  is  heard  no  more,  and  Astley's  helm  is  down, 

And  Rupert  sheathes  his  rapier,  with  a  curse  and  with  a  frown. 

And  cold  Newcastle  mutters,  as  he  follows  in  their  flight, 

"  The  German  boar  liad  better  far  have  supped  in  York  to-night." 


110  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

The  kiiiglit  is  loft  alone,  his  stool-cap  cleft  in  twain,  " 

His  good  but!" jorkin  crimsoned  o'er  with  manj^a  gory  stain  ; 

Vet  still  he  waves  his  banner,  and  cries  amid  the  rout, 

'•  For  Church  and  King,  fair  gentlemen!  sj)ur  on,  and  tight  it  out!" 

And  now  ho  wards  a  Roundhead's  pike,  and  now  he  hums  a  stave, 

And  now  he  quotes  a  stage-play,  and  now  he  fells  a  knave. 

God  aid  thee  now,  Sir  Nicholas !  thou  hast  no  thought  of  fear ; 

God  aid  thee  now,  Sir  Nicholas  !  for  fearful  odds  are  here  ! 

The  relKds  hem  thee  in,  and  at  every  cut  and  thrust, 

"  Down,  down,"  they  cry,  "with  Belial !  down  with  him  to  the  dust." 

"I  would,"  quoth  grim  old  Oliver,  "that  Belial's  trusty  sword, 

This  day  were  doing  battle  for  the  Saints  and  for  the  Lord!" 

The  Lady  Alice  sits  with  her  maidens  in  her  bower, 

The  gray-haired  warder  watches  from  the  castle's  topmost  tower ; 

'■  What  news  "?  what  news,  old  Hubert  1" — "  The  battle's  lost  and  won; 

The  royal  troops  are  melting,  like  mists  before  the  sun ! 

And  a  wounded  man  approaches; — I'm  blind,  and  can  not  see, 

Yet  sure  I  am  that  sturdy  step,  my  master's  step  must  be  !" 

"  I've  brought  thee  back  thy  banner,  wench,  from  as  rude  and  red  a  fray, 
As  e'er  was  proof  of  soldier's  thew,  or  theme  for  minstrel's  lay  ! 
Here,  Hubert,  bring  the  silver  bowl,  and  liquor  quantum  suff. 
I'll  make  a  shift  to  drain  it  yet,  ere  I  part  with  boots  and  buff; — 
Though  Guy  through  many  a  gaping  wound  is  breathing  forth  his  life. 
And  I  come  to  thee  a  landless  man,  my  fond  and  faithful  wife  I 

"  Sweet !  we  will  fill  our  money-bags,  and  freight  a  ship  for  France, 
And  mourn  in  merry  Paris  for  this  poor  land's  mischance : 
For  if  the  worst  befall  me,  why  better  axe  and  rope, 
Than  life  with  Lenthal  for  a  king,  and  Peters  for  a  pope ! 
Alas!  alas  !  my  gallant  Guy ! — curse  on  the  crop-eared  boor, 
Who  sent  me  with  my  standard,  on  foot  from  Marston  Moor  1" 

1  pass  some  poems  that  have  been  greatly  praised,  "  The  Red 
Fishermen,"  "  Lilian,"  and  "  The  Troubadour,"  to  come  to  the 
charades — the  charming  charades — which,  in  their  form  of  short 
narrative  poems,  he  may  be  said  to  have  invented.  I  insert  a 
few  taken  almost  at  random  from  his  brilliant  collection : 


I. 


I  graced  Don  Pedro's  revelry, 
All  dres.sed  in  fire  and  feather; 

When  loveliness  and  chivalry. 
Were  met  to  feast  together. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  Ill 

He  flung  the  slave  who  moved  the  lid, 

A  purse  of  maravedis  ;  — 
And  this  that  gallant  Spaniard  did, 

For  me  and  for  the  ladies. 

He  vowed  a  vow,  that  noble  knight, 

Befbre  he  went  to  table, 
To  make  his  only  sport  the  fight. 

His  only  couch  the  stable, 
Till  he  had  dragged  as  he  was  bid 

Five  score  of  Turks  to  Cadiz ; — 
And  this  that  gallant  Spaniard  did, 

For  me  and  for  the  ladies. 

To  ride  through  mountains,  where  my  Pirst 

A  banquet  would  be  reckoned  ; 
Through  deserts,  where  to  quench  their  thirst 

Men  vainly  turn  my  Second. 
To  leave  the  gates  of  fair  Madrid, 

And  dare  the  gates  of  Hades ; — 
And  this  that  gallant  Spaniard  did, 

For  me  and  for  the  ladies. 


II. 

Morning  is  beaming  o'er  brake  and  bower  ; 
Hark !  to  the  chimes  from  yonder  tower ! 
Call  ye  my  First  from  her  chamber  now. 
With  her  snowy  vail  and  her  jeweled  brow. 

Lo!  where  my  Second  in  gorgeous  array. 
Leads  from  his  stable  her  beautiful  bay, 
Looking  for  her  as  he  curvets  by 
With  an  arching  neck  and  a  glancing  eye. 

Spread  is  the  banquet  and  studied  the  song, 

Ranged  in  meet  order  the  menial  throng, 

Jerome  is  ready  with  book  and  with  stole, 

And  the  maidens  strew  flowers, — but  where  is  my  Whole  1 

Look  to  the  hill ! — is  he  climbing  its  side  1 
Look  to  the  stream ! — is  he  crossing  its  tide  ? 
Out  on  the  false  one ! — ho  comes  not  yet — 
Lady,  forget  him !  yea,  scorn  and  forgot ! 

The  next  is  a  surname,  and  one  of  the  most  beaulirul  compli- 
ments ever  offered  to  a  great  poet. 


112  KECOLLECTlOiS'S    OF 


III. 

Come  from  my  Pirst,  ay,  come ! 

The  battle  dawn  is  nigh ; 
And  the  screaming  trump  and  tlic  thundering  drum 

Arc  calling  thee  to  die ! 
Fight  as  thy  father  fought; 

Fall  as  thy  father  fell ; 
Thy  task  is  taught ;  thy  shroud  is  wrought ; 

So  ;   forward  and  farewell ! 

Toll  ye  my  Second !  toll ! 

Fling  high  the  flambeau's  light ; 
And  sing  the  hjinn  for  a  parted  soul 

Beneath  the  silent  night ! 
The  wreath  upon  his  head, 

The  cross  upon  his  breast, 
Let  the  praj'cr  be  said,  and  the  tear  be  shed. 

So, — take  liira  to  his  rest ! 

Call  ye  my  WTwle,  ay,  call 

The  lord  of  lute  and  lay ; 
And  let  him  greet  the  sable  pall 

With  a  noble  song  to-day : 
Go,  call  him  by  his  name  ! 

No  fitter  hand  may  crave 
To  light  the  fiame  of  a  soldier's  fame 

On  the  turf  of  a  soldier's  grave. 

1  add  a  few  more  of  these  graceful  pleasantries : 

IV. 

He  talked  of  daggers  and  of  darts, 

Of  passions  and  of  pains. 
Of  weeping  eyes  and  wounded  hearts. 

Of  kisses  and  of  chains  ; 
He  said,  though  love  was  kin  to  grief, 

He  was  not  born  to  grieve ; 
He  said,  though  many  rued  belief, 

She  safely  might  believe. 
But  still  the  lady  shook  her  head. 

And  swore  by  yea  and  nay. 
My  IVhok  was  all  that  he  had  said, 

And  all  that  he  could  say. 

He  said  my  Pirst  whoso  silent  car 
Was  slowly  wandering  by, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  113 

Vailed  in  a  vapor  faint  and  far 

Througli  the  unfatliomed  sky, 
Was  like  the  smile  whose  rosy  light 

Across  her  yonng  lips  passed, 
Yet,  oh  !  it  was  not  half  so  bright, 

It  changed  not  half  so  fast. 
But  still  the  lady  shook  her  head, 

And  swore  by  yea  and  nay, 
My  Whole  was  all  that  he  had  said 

And  all  that  he  could  say. 

And  then  he  set  a  cypress  wreath 

Upon  his  raven  hair. 
And  drew  his  rapier  from  its  sheath, — 

Which  made  the  lady  stare ; 
And  said  his  life  blood's  purple  glow 

My  Second  there  should  dim, 
If  she  he  loved  and  worshiped  so. 

Would  only  weep  for  him. 
But  still  the  lady  shook  her  head. 

And  swore  by  yea  and  nay. 
My  W/wle  was  all  that  he  had  said 

And  all  that  he  could  say. 


My  F^irst  came  forth  in  booted  state, 

For  fair  Valencia  bound; 
And  smiled  to  feel  my  Second's  weight, 

And  hear  its  creaking  sound. 

"And  here's  a  gaoler, sweet,"  quoth  he, 
"  You  can  not  bribe  or  cozen  ; 

To  keep  one  ward  in  custody 
Wise  men  will  forge  a  dozen." 

But  daybreak  saw  a  lady  guide 

My  Whok  across  the  plain, 
With  a  handsome  cavalier  beside, 

To  hold  her  bridle-rein  : 

And  "  blessings  on  the  bonds,"  quoth  he, 
"  Which  wrinkled  ago  imposes. 

If  woman  must  a  prisoner  be. 
Her  chain  should  be  of  roses." 


11:1:  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


VL 


My  PirsI  was  dark  o'er  earth  and  air, 

As  dark  as  she  coukl  be ! 
Tlie  stars  that  gonimcd  her  ebon  hair 

Were  only  two  or  tlirec  : 
King  Cole  saw  thrice  as  many  there 

As  you  or  I  could  see. 

"  Away,  King  Cole,"  mine  hostess  said, 

"  Flagon  and  flask  are  drj' ; 
Your  steed  is  neighing  in  the  shed, 

For  he  knows  a  storm  is  nigh." 
She  set  my  Second  on  his  head, 

And  she  set  it  all  awry. 

VIL 

Sir  Ililarj"  charged  at  Agincourt, — 

Sooth  'twas  an  awful  day ! 
And  though  in  that  old  age  of  sport 
The  rufflers  of  the  camp  and  court 

Had  little  time  to  praj', 
'Tis  said  Sir  Hilary  muttered  there 
Two  syllables  by  way  of  prayer. 

My  First  to  all  the  brave  and  proud 

Who  see  to-morrow's  sun  ; 
My  Next  with  her  cold  and  quiet  cloud 
To  those  who  find  their  dewy  shroud 

Before  to-day's  be  done  ; 
And  both  together  to  all  blue  eyes 
That  weep  when  a  warrior  nobly  dies. 

This  charade  is  still  a  mystery  to  me.     Solve  it,  fair  readers  ! 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  116 


X. 

PEASANT    POETS. 

JOHN    CLARE. 

Nearly  at  the  same  period  when  Macaulay  and  Praed  sprang 
into  public  life,  the  world  of  letters  was  startled  by  the  announce- 
ment of  a  new  poet,  a  Northamptonshire  peasant,  whose  claims 
to  distinction  were  vouched  for  by  judges  of  no  ordinary  sagacity, 
little  given  to  mistake,  and  by  no  means  addicted  to  enthusiasm. 
His  character  was  blameless  and  amiable.  Although  of  a  frame 
little  suited  to  severity  of  toil,  he  had  for  many  years  supported 
his  aged  parents  by  manual  labor,  and  in  bringing  his  powers 
into  the  light  of  day,  he  had  undergone  more  than  the  ordinary 
amount  of  delay,  of  suspense,  of  disappointment,  and  of  "  the  hope 
deferred  that  maketh  the  heart  sick." 

From  the  prefaces  to  his  three  publications,  the  "  Poems,  De- 
scriptive of  Rural  Life  and  Scenery,"  "  The  Village  Minstrel," 
and  "  The  Rural  Muse,"  his  early  history  may  be  collected.  At 
the  age  of  thirteen,  when  he  could  read  tolerably,  and  knew 
something  of  writing  and  arithmetic,  he  met,  accidentally,  with 
"  Thomson's  Seasons,"  a  book  which  not  only  awakened  in  his 
mind  the  love  of  poetry,  but  led  him  at  once  to  the  kind  of  poetry 
in  which,  from  situation  and  from  natural  aptitude,  he  was  most 
likely  to  succeed.  For  another  sixteen  years  his  brief  leisure  was 
filled  with  attempts,  more  or  less  successful,  to  clothe,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  verse,  his  own  feelings  and  observations.  His  chief  trial, 
during  this  long  probation,  must  have  been  his  entire  loneliness 
of  mind — the  absence  of  all  companionship  or  sympathy.  At  this 
time  he  met  with  the  "  Patty"  whom  he  afterward  married, 
and,  in  the  hope  of  improving  his  circumstances,  began  to  con- 
sider seriously  about  publishing  a  small  volume  by  subscription  ; 
and,  having  ascertained  that  the  expense  of  three  hundred  copies 
of  a  prospectus  would  not  be  more  than  a  pound,  he  set  himself 


116  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

resolutely  to  work,  ami  by  hard  labor,  day  and  night,  at  length 
suceecded  in  aecuniulating  the  required  sum. 

'■  I  distributed  my  papers,"  said  the  poor  author,  "  but  as  I 
eould  get  no  way  of  pushing  them  into  higher  circles  than  those 
with  whom  I  was  acquainted,  they  consequently  passed  off  as 
quietly  as  if  they  had  still  been  in  my  possession,  unprinted  and 
not  seen."  For  a  long  while  the  number  of  subscribers  stood  at 
seven.  At  length,  however,  a  copy  of  the  proposals  won  their 
way  to  London.  Messrs.  Taylor  and  Hessey  gave  twenty  pounds 
for  the  Poems  ;  and,  what  was  far  better  for  the  author,  contrived 
to  obtain  for  them  immediate  publicity. 

The  little  volume  was  striking  in  what  it  had  and  in  what  it 
wanted.  The  very  struggle  between  original  thought  and  im- 
perfect expression  sometimes  I'esulted  in  happiness  and  beauty. 
One  thing  was  certain  :  John  Clare  was  no  imitator.  Persons 
of  taste  and  generosity  in  the  higher  classes  took  him  by  the  hand. 
Lord  Exeter  sent  for  him  to  Burleigh,  and  hearing  that  he  earned 
thirty  pounds  per  annum  by  field  labor,  settled  an  annuity  of  fif- 
teen pounds  upon  him,  with  a  view  to  his  devoting  half  his  time 
to  agricultural  occupations,  and  half  to  literary  pursuits.  This 
benevolent  proposal,  which  sounds  so  hopefully,  proved  a  notable 
failure,  chiefly  in  consequence  of  our  national  failing  of  running 
after  every  thing  and  every  body  that  has  attained  a  suflicient 
portion  of  notoriety.  Poor  Clare  became  as  great  a  lion  as  if  he 
had  committed  two  or  three  murders.  He  was  frequently  inter- 
rupted, as  often  as  three  times  a  day,  during  his  labors  in  the 
harvest-field,  to  gratify  the  curiosity  of  admiring  visitors  ;  and  a 
plan,  excellent  in  its  principle,  was  abandoned  perforce.  Other 
wealthy  and  liberal  noblemen  joined  in  the  good  work.  Lord 
Spencer  gave  ten  pounds  per  annum.  A  subscription  was  set  on 
foot  by  Lord  Radstock,  to  which  the  present  King  of  the  Belgians, 
Lord  Fitzwilliam,  and  Lord  John  Russell  contributed  generously, 
and  which,  together  with  the  profits  of  his  works — for  "  The  Vil- 
lage Minstrel"  had  now  been  published — realized  for  him  alto- 
gether an  annual  income  of  five-and-forty  pounds.  This  appeared 
affluence  to  our  poet,  and  he  married. 

Praised  by  the  "  (Quarterly,"  and  befriended  by  noble  patrons 
and  generous  booksellers,  his  prospects  seemed  more  than  com- 
monly smiling.  His  third  publication,  too,  "  The  Rural  Muse," 
in  spite  of  its  unpromising  title,  more  than  justified  all  that  had 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  117 

been  done  for  him.  The  improvement  was  most  remarkable. 
That  he  should  gain  a  greater  command  over  language,  a  choicer 
selection  of  vi^ords,  and  the  knowledge  of  grammatical  construc- 
tion, which  he  had  wanted  before,  was  to  be  expected  ;  but  the 
habit  of  observation  seemed  to  have  increased  in  fineness  and  ac- 
curacy in  proportion  as  he  gained  the  power  of  expression,  and 
the  delicacy  of  his  sentiment  kept  pace  with  the  music  of  his 
versification.  What  can  be  closer  to  nature  than  his  description 
of  the  nightingale's  nest  ? 

Up  this  green  woodland  ride  let's  softly  rove, 

And  list  the  Nightingale ;  she  dwells  just  here. 

Hush !   let  the  wood-gate  softly  clap,  for  fear 

The  noise  might  drive  her  from  her  home  of  love ; 

For  here  I've  heard  her  many  a  merry  year, 

At  mom,  at  eve,  nay,  all  the  livelong  day, 

As  though  she  lived  on  song.     This  very  spot 

Just  where  that  old-man's-beard  all  wildly  trails 

Rude  arbors  o'er  the  road,  and  stops  the  way ; 

And  where  the  child  its  blue-bell  flowers  hath  got, 

Laughing  and  creeping  through  the  mossy  rails ; 

There  have  I  hunted  like  a  very  boy. 

Creeping  on  hands  and  knees  through  matted  thorn. 

To  find  her  nest,  and  see  her  feed  her  young. 

And  vainly  did  I  many  hours  employ  : 

All  seemed  as  hidden  as  a  thought  unborn. 

And  where  those  crumpling  fern-leaves  ramp  among 

The  hazel's  under  boughs,  I've  nestled  down 

And  watched  her  while  she  sang ;  and  her  renown 

Hath  made  me  marvel  that  so  famed  a  bird 

Should  have  no  better  dress  than  russet  brown. 

Her  wings  would  tremble  in  her  ecstasy. 

And  feathers  stand  on  end,  as  'twere  with  joy. 

And  mouth  wide  open  to  release  her  heart 

Of  its  out-sobbing  songs.     The  happiest  part 

Of  Summer's  fame  she  shared,  for  so  to  me 

Did  happy  fancies  shapen  her  employ. 

But  if  I  touched  a  bush,  or  scarcely  stirred. 

All  in  a  moment  stopt.     I  watched  in  vain : 

The  timid  bird  had  left  the  hazel  bush. 

And  oft  in  distance  hid  to  sing  again. 

Lost  in  a  wilderness  of  listening  leaves, 

Rich  ecstasy  would  pour  its  luscious  strain, 

'Till  envy  spurred  the  emulating  Thrush 

To  start  less  wild  and  scarce  inferior  songs ; 

For  while  of  half  the  year  Care  him  bereaves, 

To  damp  the  ardor  of  his  spocklod  broast, 


118  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

The  Nitjhtingale  to  Summer's  life  belongs, 

Ami  naked  trees  and  Winter's  nipping  wrongs 

Are  strangers  to  lier  music  and  her  rest. 

Her  joys  are  ever  green,  her  world  is  wide ! 

Hark !  there  she  is,  as  usual.     Let's  be  hush  ; 

For  in  this  black-thorn  clump,  if  rightly  guessed. 

Her  curious  house  is  hidden.     Part  aside 

Those  hazel  branches  in  a  gentle  way, 

And  stoop  right  cautious  'neath  the  rustling  boughs, 

For  we  will  have  another  search  to-day, 

And  hunt  this  fern-strewn  thorn-clump  round  and  round ; 

And  where  this  reeded  wood-grass  idly  bows 

We'll  wade  right  through ;  it  is  a  likely  nook. 

In  such  like  spots,  and  often  on  the  ground 

They'll  build  where  rude  boys  never  think  to  look ; — 

Ay,  as  I  live !  her  secret  nest  is  here 

Upon  this  white-thorn  stump!     I've  searched  about 

For  hours  in  vain.     There,  put  that  bramble  by, — 

Nay,  trample  on  its  branches,  and  get  near. 

How  subtile  is  the  bird !     She  started  out. 

And  raised  a  plaintive  note  of  danger  nigh 

Ere  we  were  past  the  brambles ;  and  now,  near 

Her  nest,  she  sudden  stops,  as  choking  fear 

That  might  betray  her  home.     So  even  now 

We'll  leave  it  as  we  found  it;  safety's  guard 

Of  pathless  solitudes  shall  keep  it  still. 

*****  * 

We  will  not  plunder  music  of  its  dower, 
Nor  turn  this  spot  of  happiness  to  thrall. 
For  melody  seems  hid  in  every  flower 
That  blo.ssoms  near  thy  home.     These  bluebells  all 
Seem  bowing  with  the  beautiful  in  song ; 
And  gaping  cuckoo-flower,  with  spotted  leaves, 
Seems  blushing  of  the  singing  it  has  heard. 
How  curious  is  the  nest!     No  other  bird 
Uses  such  loose  materials,  or  weaves 
Its  dwelling  in  such  spots !     Dead  oaken  leaves 
Are  placed  without,  and  velvet  moss  within. 
And  little  scraps  of  grass,  and  scant  and  spare, 
What  hardly  seem  materials,  down  and  hair ; 
For  from  men's  haunts  she  nothing  seems  to  win. 

***** 
Snug  lie  her  curious  eggs,  in  number  five. 
Of  deadened  green,  or  rather  olive-brown. 
And  the  old  prickly  thorn  bush  guards  them  well. 
So  here  we'll  leave  them,  still  unknown  to  wrong, 
As  the  old  woodland's  legacy  of  song. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  119 

Is  not   this  nature  itself?     And  again  another  nest,  as  true 
every  whit  in  its  difference. 

THE  PETTICHAP'S  NEST. 

Well !  in  my  many  walks  I've  rarely  found 
A  place  less  likely  for  a  bird  to  form 
Its  nest ;  close  by  the  rnt-gulled  wagon-road, 
And  on  the  almost  bare  foot-trodden  ground. 
With  scarce  a  clump  of  grass  to  keep  it  warm, 
Where  not  a  thistle  spreads  its  spears  abroad. 
Or  prickly  bush  to  shield  it  from  harm's  way ; 
And  yet  so  snugly  made,  that  none  may  spy 
It  out,  save  peradventure.     You  and  I 
Had  surely  passed  it  in  our  walk  to-day. 
Had  chance  not  led  us  by  it !     Nay,  e'en  now, 
Had  not  the  old  bird  heard  us  trampling  by. 
And  fluttered  out,  we  had  not  seen  it  lie 
Brown  as  the  road- way  side.     Small  bits  of  hay 
Pluckt  from  the  old  propt  haj'stack's  pleachy  brow, 
And  withered  leaves,  make  up  its  outward  wall. 
Which  from  the  gnarled  oak-dotterel  yearly  fall, 
And  in  the  old  hedge-bottom  rot  away. 
Built  like  an  oven,  through  a  little  hole, 
Scarcely  admitting  e'en  two  figures  in. 
Hard  to  discern,  the  birds  snug  entrance  win. 
'Tis  lined  with  feathers,  warm  as  silken  stole, 
Softer  than  seats  of  down  for  painless  ease. 
And  full  of  eggs  scarce  bigger  ev'n  than  peas. 
Here's  one  most  delicate,  with  spots  as  small 
As  dust,  and  of  a  faint  and  pinky  red. 

■X-  *  *  *  *  * 

And  they  are  left  to  many  dangerous  ways. 
A  green  grasshopper's  jump  might  break  the  shells ; 
Yet  lowing  oxen  pass  them  morn  and  night, 
And  restless  sheep  around  them  hourly  stray. 
****** 

I  add  yet  another  : — 

THE  YELLOWHAMMER'S  NEST. 

Just  by  the  wooden  bridge  a  bird  flew  up. 

Seen  by  the  cow-boy  as  he  scrambled  down 

To  reach  the  misty  dewberry.     Let  us  stoop 

And  seek  its  nest.     The  brook  we  need  not  dread, — 

'Tis  scarcely  deep  enough  a  bee  to  drown. 

As  it  sings  harmless  o'er  its  pebbly  bed. 

— Ay,  here  it  is !     Stuck  close  beside  the  bank, 

Beneath  the  bunch  of  grass  that  spindles  rank 


120  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Its  husk-sccds  tall  anil  high  :  'tis  rudely  planned 

Of  bleached  stubbles  and  the  withered  faro 

That  last  year's  harvest  left  upon  the  land, 

Lined  thinly  with  the  liorse's  sable  hah'. 

Five  eggs,  pen-scribbled  o'er  with  ink  their  shells, 

Kesembling  writing  scrawls,  which  Fancy  reads 

As  Nature's  poesy  and  pastoral  spells  : 

Thej'  are  the  Yellowhammer's ;  and  she  dwells. 

Most  poet^like,  'mid  brooks  and  flowery  weeds. 


I  question  if  the  great  bird-painter,  Wilson,  or  our  own  Aus- 
tralian ornithologist,  Mr.  Gould  (he  is  a  Berkshire  man,  I  am 
proud  to  say),  or  Audubon,  or  White  of  Selborne,  or  Mr.  Waterton 
himself, — and  all  those  careful  inquirers  into  nature  are  more  or 
less  poets,  seldom  as  they  have  used  the  conventional  language  of 
poetry, — I  question  if  any  of  these  eminent  writers  have  ever  ex- 
ceeded the  minuteness  and  accuracy  of  these  birds'  nests. 

The  Poem  called  "Insects"  is  scarcely  less  beautiful. 

These  tiny  loiterers  on  the  barley's  beard, 
And  happy  units  of  a  nunaerous  herd 
Of  playfellows,  the  laughing  summer  brings; 
Mocking  the  sunshine  on  their  glittering  wings, 
How  merrily  they  creep,  and  run,  and  fly  ! 
No  kin  they  bear  to  labor's  drudgery, 
Smoothing  the  velvet  of  the  pale  hedge-rose, 
And  where  they  fly  for  dinner  no  one  knows ; 
The  dew-drops  feed  them  not ;  they  love  the  shine 
Of  noon,  whose  suns  may  bring  them  golden  wine. 
All  day  they're  playing  in  their  Sunday  dress; 
When  night  reposes  they  can  do  no  less ! 
Then  to  the  heath-bell's  purple  hood  they  fly. 
And,  like  to  princes  in  their  slumbers,  lie 
Secure  from  rain  and  dropping  dews,  and  all 
On  silken  beds  and  roomy  painted  hall. 
So  merrily  they  spend  their  summer  day, 
Now  in  the  corn-fields,  now  the  new-mown  hay. 
One  almost  fancies  that  such  happy  things. 
With  colored  hoods  and  richly-burnished  wings, 
Are  fairy  folk  in  splendid  masquerade 
Disguised,  as  if  of  mortal  folk  afraid, 
Keeping  their  joyous  pranks  a  mystery  still, 
Lest  glaring  day  should  do  their  secrets  ill. 

And  as  I  have  said  above,  other  qualities  too  had  supervened. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  121 

The  delicacy  of  sentiment  in  the  following  stanzas  bears  no  touch 
of  the  uncultivated  peasant. 

FIRST  LOVE'S  RECOLLECTIONS. 

First  love  will  with  the  heart  remain 

When  all  its  hopes  are  by, 
As  frail  rose-blossoms  still  retain 

Their  fragrance  when  they  die. 
And  joy's  first  dreams  will  haunt  the  mind 

With  shades  from  whence  they  sprung, 
As  summer  leaves  the  stems  behind 

On  which  spring's  blossoms  hung. 

Mary !  I  dare  not  call  thee  dear, 

I've  lost  that  right  so  long, 
Yet  once  again  I  vex  thine  ear 

With  memory's  idle  song. 
Had  time  and  change  not  blotted  out 

The  love  of  former  days, 
Thou  wert  the  first  that  I  should  doubt 

Of  pleasing  with  my  praise. 

When  honeyed  tokens  from  each  tongue 

Told  with  what  truth  we  loved. 
How  rapturous  to  thy  lips  I  clung. 

While  naught  but  smiles  reproved. 
But  now,  methinks  if  one  kind  word 

Was  whispered  in  thine  ear, 
Thouds't  startle  like  an  untamed  bird. 

And  blush  with  wilder  fear. 

How  loth  to  part,  how  fond  to  meet. 

Had  we  two  used  to  be, 
At  sunset  with  what  eager  feet 

I  hastened  unto  thee ! 
Scarce  nine  days  passed  us  ere  we  met. 

In  spring,  nay,  wintry  weather ; — 
Now  nine  years'  suns  have  risen  and  set, 

Nor  found  us  once  together. 

Thy  face  was  so  familiar  grown, 

Thyself  so  often  by, 
A  moment's  memory  when  alone, 

Would  bring  thee  to  mine  eye. 
But  now  my  very  dreams  forget 

That  witching  look  to  trace  ; 
And  though  thy  beauty  lingers  yet, 

It  wears  a  stranger's  face. 

F 


122  KE  COLLECTIONS    OF 

I  folt  a  j)ri(lo  to  name  tliy  name, 

But  now  that  pride  liath  down ; 
My  words  e'en  seem  to  blusli  for  shame 

That  own  1  love  thee  on. 
I  folt  I  then  thy  lieart  did  share, 

Nor  urged  a  binding  vow  ; 
But  much  I  doubt  if  thou  couldst  spare 

One  word  of  kindness  now. 

And  what  is  now  my  name  to  thee, 

Though  once  naught  seemed  so  dear  1 
Perliaps  a  jest  in  hours  of  glee, 

To  please  some  idle  ear. 
And  yet  like  counterfeits  with  mc 

Impressions  linger  on, 
Though  all  the  gilded  finery 

That  passed  for  truth  is  gone. 

Ere  the  world  smiled  upon  my  lays, 

A  sweeter  meed  was  mine ; 
Thy  blushing  look  of  ready  praise 

Was  raised  at  every  line. 
But  now  methinks  thy  fervent  love 

Is  changed  to  scorn  severe  ; 
And  songs  that  other  hearts  approve, 

Seem  discord  to  thine  ear. 

When  last  thy  gentle  cheek  I  pressed 

And  heard  thee  feign  adieu, 
I  little  thought  that  seeming  jest 

Would  prove  a  word  so  true. 
A  fate  like  this  hath  oft  befell 

E'en  loftier  hopes  than  ours;  — 
Spring  bids  full  many  buds  to  swell. 

That  ne'er  can  grow  to  flowers. 

That  was  John  Clares  last  A'olume,  published  in  1839,  and 
although  generously  noticed  by  the  press,  it  did  not  sell.  Perhaps 
the  very  imperfections  of  the  earlier  works  had  made  a  part  of 
their  charm.  There  is  a  certain  pleasure  in  being  called  upon  to 
show  indulgence  to  one  whose  high  gifts  are  indisputable.  Besides 
the  complacency  always  attending  a  sense  of  superiority  of  any 
kind,  it  flatters  one's  self-love  most  agreeably  (I  am  speaking  of 
readers,  not  of  critics),  to  be  able  to  detect  and  to  point  out 
beauties  under  the  vail  of  defects.  Still  greater  was  the  pride  of 
being  among  the  first  discoverers  of  such  endowments.  With  the 
novelty  that  pleasure  vanished.     Every  child  boasts  the  violet  of 


A    LITEEARY    LIFE.  123 

his  own  finding,  and  cherishes  and  caresses  it — while  it  is  fresh ; 
then  it  disappears  and  is  no  more  thought  of.  Woe  to  us  if  so 
we  treat  a  still  tenderer  flower! 

However  it  happened,  the  popularity  diminished  as  the  merit 
increased.  The  public,  usually  so  just  in  its  ultimate  estimate 
of  authors,  failed  in  this  particular  instance  to  recognize  the 
strong  and  honest  claim  upon  a  fair  and  liberal  patronage  pos- 
sessed by  one  who  had  been  taken  from  his  own  humble  avoca- 
tion, from  the  homely  work  but  the  certain  reward  of  the  plow, 
to  cultivate  the  always  uncertain,  and  too  often  barren  and  un- 
thankful fields  of  literature.  Such,  I  fear,  poor  Clare  found  them. 
Improyement  had  come,  but  with  improvement  came  sickness 
and  anxiety.  The  little  income  had  soon  been  found  inadequate 
to  the  wants  of  his  aged  parents  and  the  demands  of  an  increas- 
ing family  ;  for  they  will  marry,  these  poets  !  Poverty  over- 
whelmed him,  and  illness, — and  they  who  still  took  a  kindly  in- 
terest in  one  who  had  crept  so  close  to  the  heart  of  nature  in  cop- 
pice and  in  field, — heard  with  sorrowful  sympathy  that  the  ill- 
ness was  of  the  mind. 

It  has  been  said  that  pecuniary  difliculties  were  the  real  cause 
of  the  malady,  and  that  the  removal  of  all  anxiety  as  to  the 
means  of  living  would  at  once  cure  the  delusions  under  which  he 
labors,  and  restore  him  to  his  home  and  to  his  family.  I  wish  it 
were  so,  for  I  think  if  that  were  true  (and  certainly  the  fact 
ought  to  be  ascertained,  as  nearly  as  any  thing  of  that  natui'e  can 
be  ascertained  by  medical  examination),  that  they  who  so  benev- 
olently lent  their  aid  to  lift  him  from  his  original  obscurity,  would, 
aided  by  others  of  a  like  spirit,  step  forward  to  rescue  from  a  still 
deeper  darkness  one  whose  talents  had  so  well  justified  their  for- 
mer bounty. 

In  the  meanwhile  it  is  an  alleviation  to  the  painful  feeling  ex- 
cited by  such  a  narrative  to  know  that  the  poor  poet,  perfectly 
gentle  and  harmless,  enjoys  in  the  asylum  where  he  is  placed,  the 
wise  freedom  of  person  and  of  action  which  is  the  triumph  of  hu- 
manity and  of  science  in  the  present  day. 

A  few  years  ago  he  was  visited  by  a  friend  of  mine,  himself  a 
poet  of  the  people,  who  gave  me  a  most  interesting  account  of 
thr»  then  state  of  his  intellect.  Ilis  delusions  were  at  that  time 
very  singular  in  their  character.  Whatever  he  read,  whatever 
recurred  to  him  from  his  former  reading,  or  happened  to  be  men- 


124  RECOLLECTIONS     OF 

tioned  in  conversation,  became  impressed  on  his  mind  as  a  thing 
that  he  had  witnessed  and  acted  in.  My  friend  was  struck  witli 
a  narrative  of  the  execution  of  Charles  the  First,  recounted  by 
Clare,  as  a  transaction  that  occurred  yesterday  and  of  which  he 
was  an  eye-witness, — a  narrative  the  most  graphic  and  minute, 
with  an  accuracy  as  to  costume  and  manners  far  exceeding  what 
would  probably  have  been  at  his  command  if  sane.  It  is  such  a 
lucidity  as  the  disciples  of  Mesmer  claim  for  clairvoyance.  Or 
he  would  relate  the  battle  of  the  Nile,  and  the  death  of  Lord  Nel- 
son with  the  same  perfect  keeping,  especially  as  to  seamanship, 
fancying  himself  one  of  the  sailors  who  had  been  in  the  action, 
and  dealing  out  nautical  phrases  with  admirable  exactness  and 
accuracy,  although  it  is  doubtful  if  he  ever  saw  the  sea  in  his  life. 

About  three  years  before  my  friend's  visit,  Mr.  Cyrus  Redding 
went  to  see  him,  and  has  given  a  very  interesting  description  of 
the  poet  and  of  his  state  of  mind,  in  the  "  English  Journal."  He 
says  that  during  his  stay  he  appeared  free  from  all  delusion,  ex- 
cept once  when  some  allusion  was  made  to  prize-fighting,  and 
represents  him  as  regretting  the  absence  of  female  society,  and  as 
continuing  to  write  verse  of  much  merit.  I  have  myself  some 
fragments,  written  with  a  pencil,  which  show  all  his  old  power 
over  rhythm.* 

Mr.  Redding  gives  several  examples  of  these  poems.  They 
are  distinguished  from  those  of  his  earlier  days  by  several  differ- 
ences, especially  by  the  change  from  the  rich  level  meadows  of 

*  About  a  hundred  years  ago,  Christopher  Smart,  seized  with  a  similar 
malady,  confined  in  a  madhouse,  and  deprived  of  the  use  of  pen,  ink,  and 
paper,  contrived  to  indent  his  Song  of  David  upon  the  wainscot  with  the 
end  of  a  key.  I  add  three  stanzas  of  this  fine  poem  as  a  psychological 
curiosity.  Times  are  changed  for  the  better.  John  Clare  has  all  encour- 
agement to  write  as  often  and  as  much  as  he  chooses. 
He  sang  of  God,  the  mighty  source 
Of  all  things,  ttie  stupendous  force, 

On  which  all  strength  depends  ; 
From  whose  right  arm,  beneath  whose  eyes 
All  period,  power,  and  enterprise. 

Commences,  reigns,  and  ends. 
The  world,  the  clustering  spheres  he  made, 
The  glorious  light,  the  soothing  shade, 

Dale,  champaign,  grove,  and  hill ; 
The  multitudinous  abyss, 
Where  Secrecy  remains  in  bliss. 
And  Wisdom  hides  her  skill. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  125 

Northamptonshire  to  the  hill  and  dale  of  Epping  Forest.      Here 
is  one  which  is  said  to  be  reminiscent  of  his  Patty  : 

Maid  of  Walkherd  meet  again 
By  the  wilding  in  the  glen ; 
By  the  oak  against  the  door, 
Where  we  often  met  before. 
By  thy  bosom's  heaving  snow, 
By  thy  fondness  love  shall  know ; 
Maid  of  Walkherd  meet  again 
By  the  wilding  in  the  glen. 
By  thy  hand  of  slender  make, 
By  thy  love  I'll  ne'er  forsake, 
By  thy  heart  I'll  ne'er  betray. 
Let  me  kiss  thy  tears  away. 
I  will  live  and  love  thee  ever. 
Love  thee  and  forsake  thee  never. 
Though  far  in  other  lands  to  be. 
Yet  never  far  from  love  and  thee. 

The  next  specimen  has  much  of  his  fine  observation  of  natural 
objects,  and  his  old  love  of  birds  breaks  through  every  thing  : — 

The  forest  meets  the  blessings  of  the  spring. 

The  chestnut  throws  her  sticky  buds  away, 

And  shows  her  pleasant  leaves  and  snow-white  flowers. 

***** 
I've  often  tried,  when  tending  sheep  or  cow, 
With  bits  of  grass  and  peels  of  oaten  straw, 
To  whistle  like  the  birds.     The  thrush  would  start 
To  hear  her  song  of  praise,  and  fly  away ; 
The  blackbird  never  cared,  but  sang  again ; 
The  niglitingale's  pure  song  I  could  not  try, 
And  when  the  thrush  would  mock  her  song,  she  paused. 
And  sang  another  song  no  bird  could  do : 
She  sang  when  all  were  done,  and  beat  them  all. 
I've  often  sat,  and  watched  them  half  the  day 
Behind  the  hedgerow  thorn  or  bullace-tree ; 
I  thought  how  nobly  I  would  act  in  crowds. 
The  woods  and  fields  were  all  the  books  I  knew, 
And  every  leisure  thought  was  love  or  fame. 

Tell  them  I  Am,  Jehovah  said, 

To  Moses ;  while  earth  heard  in  dread. 

And  smitten  to  the  heart, 
At  once  above,  beneath,  around, 
All  Nature,  without  voice  or  sound. 

Replied,  0  Lord,  Thou  art! 

Devotional  poetry  has  nothing  grander  even  in  Milton. 


120  KE COL LECTIONS    OF 

There  is  some  iutenlion,  I  believe,  of  publishing  a  volume  of 
these  poems.  It  will  be  interesting  on  many  accounts,  and  lor 
the  sake  of  the  poet  and  of  his  family,  1  heartily  wish  it  every 
success. 

We  can  not,  I  repeat,  do  too  much  for  John  Clare  ;  he  has  a 
claim  to  it  as  a  man  of  genius  suffering  under  the  severest  visi- 
tation of  Providence.  But  let  us  beware  of  indulging  ourselves 
by  encouraging  the  class  of  pseudo-peasant  poets  who  spring  up 
on  every  side,  and  are  among  the  most  pitiable  objects  in  creation. 
One  knows  them  by  sight  upon  the  pathway,  from  their  appear- 
ance of  vagrant  misery, — an  appearance  arising  from  the  sense  of 
injustice  and  of  oppression  under  which  they  suffer,  the  powerless 
feeling  that  they  have  claims  which  the  whole  world  refuses  to 
acknowledge,  a  perpetual  and  growing  sense  of  injury.  It  is 
worse  insanity  than  John  Clare's,  and  one  for  which  there  is  no 
asylum.  Victims  to  their  own  day-dreams  are  they !  They  have 
heard  of  Burns  and  of  Chatterton  ;  they  have  a  certain  knack  of 
rhyming,  although  that  is  by  no  means  necessary  to  such  a  delu- 
sion ;  they  find  an  audience  whom  their  intense  faith  in  their  own 
power  conspires  to  delude  ;  and  their  quiet,  their  content,  their 
every  prospect  is  ruined  forever.  It  is  this  honest  and  uncon- 
querable persuasion  of  their  own  genius  that  makes  it  impossible 
to  reason  with  or  convince  them.  Their  faith  in  their  own 
powers — the  racking  sense  of  the  injustice  of  all  about  them, 
makes  one's  heart  ache.  It  is  impossible  for  the  sternest  or  the 
sturdiest  teller  of  painful  truths  to  disenchant  them,  and  the  con- 
sequence is  as  obvious  as  it  is  miserable.  For  that  shadow  every 
substance  is  foregone.  They  believe  poetry  to  be  their  work,  and 
they  will  do  no  other.  Then  comes  utter  poverty.  They  haunt 
the  ale-house,  they  drink,  they  sicken,  they  starve.  I  have  known 
many  such. 

Happily  there  is  one  cure,  not  for  individual  cases,  but  for 
the  entire  class  ;  a  slow  but  a  sure  remedy.  Let  the  sunlight  in, 
and  the  night-phantoms  vanish.  Education,  wide  and  general, 
not  mere  learning  to  read,  but  making  discreet  and  wise  use  of 
the  power,  and  the  nuisance  will  be  abated  at  once  and  forever. 
Let  our  peasants  become  as  intelligent  as  our  artisans,  and  we 
shall  have  no  more  prodigies,  no  more  martyrs. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  127 


XI. 

AUTHORS  associati;d  with  places. 

SAMUEL    JOHNSON. 

Most  undoubtedly  I  was  a  spoilt  child.  When  I  recollect 
certain  passages  of  my  thrice  happy  early  life,  I  can  not  have  the 
slightest  doubt  about  the  matter,  although  it  contradicts  all  fore- 
gone conclusions,  all  nursery  and  school-room  morality,  to  say  so. 
But  facts  are  stubborn  things.  Spoilt  I  was.  Every  body  spoilt 
me,  most  of  all  the  person  whose  power  in  that  way  was  great- 
est, the  dear  papa  himself  Not  content  with  spoiling  me  in- 
doors, he  spoilt  me  out.  How  well  I  remember  his  carrying  me 
round  the  orchard  on  his  shoulder,  holding  fast  my  little  three- 
year-old  feet,  while  the  little  hands  hung  on  to  his  pig-tail,  which 
I  called  my  bridle  (those  were  days  of  pig-tails),  hung  so  fast,  and 
tugged  so  heartily,  that  sometimes  the  ribbon  would  come  off  be- 
tween my  fingers,  and  send  his  hair  floating,  and  the  powder  fly- 
ing down  his  back.  That  climax  of  mischief  was  the  crowning 
joy  of  all.     I  can  hear  our  shouts  of  laughter  now. 

Nor  were  these  my  only  rides.  This  dear  papa  of  mine,  whose 
gay  and  careless  temper  all  the  professional  etiquette  of  the  world 
could  never  tame  into  the  staid  gravity  proper  to  a  doctor  of  med- 
icine, happened  to  be  a  capital  horseman  ;  and  abandoning  the 
close  carriage,  which,  at  that  time,  was  the  regulation  convey- 
ance of  a  physician,  almost  wholly  to  my  mother,  used  to  pay  his 
country  visits  on  a  favorite  blood-mare,  whose  extreme  docility 
and  gentleness  tempted  him,  after  certain  short  trials  round  our 
old  course,  the  orchard,  into  having  a  pad  constructed,  perched 
upon  which  I  might  occasionally  accompany  him,  when  the 
weather  was  favorable,  and  the  distance  not  too  great.  A  groom, 
who  had  been  bred  up  in  my  grandfather's  family,  always  at- 
tended us  ;  and  1  do  tliink  that  both  Brown   Bess  and  George 


12S  liECOLLECTIONS    OF 

liked  to  have  me  witli  llieiu  almost  as  well  as  my  father  did. 
The  old  servant  jiroud,  as  j^rooms  always  are,  of  a  fleet  and  beau- 
tiful horse,  was  almost  as  proud  of  my  horsemanship  ;  for  I,  cow- 
ardly eiiouph,  Heaven  knows,  in  after-years,  was  then  too  young 
and  too  ignorant  for  fear, — if  it  could  have  been  possible  to  have 
had  any  sense  of  danger  when  strapped  so  tightly  to  my  father's 
saddle,  and  inclosed  so  fondly  by  his  strong  and  loving  arm. 
Very  delightful  were  those  rides  across  the  breezy  Hampshire 
downs  on  a  sunny  summer  morning  ;  and  grieved  was  I  when  a 
change  of  residence  from  a  small  town  to  a  large  one,  and  going 
among  strange  people  who  did  not  know  our  ways,  put  an  end  to 
this  perfectly  harmless,  if  somewhat  unusual,  pleasure. 

But  the  dear  papa  was  not  my  only  spoiler.  His  example  was 
followed,  as  bad  examples  are  pretty  sure  to  be,  by  the  rest  of 
the  household.  My  maid  Nancy,  for  instance,  before  we  left 
Hampshire,  married  a  young  farmer  ;  and  nothing  would  serve 
her  but  I  must  be  bridesmaid.     And  so  it  was  settled. 

She  was  married  from  her  own  home,  about  four  miles  from 
our  house,  and  was  to  go  to  her  husband's  after  the  ceremony. 
I  remember  the  whole  scene  as  if  it  were  yesterday  I  How  my 
father  took  me  himself  to  the  churchyard-gate,  where  the  proces- 
sion was  formed,  and  how  I  walked  next  to  the  young  couple 
hand  in  hand  -with  the  bridegroom's  naan,  no  other  than  the  vil- 
lage blacksmith,  a  giant  of  six-feet-three,  who  might  have  served 
as  a  model  for  Hercules.  Much  trouble  had  he  to  stoop  low 
enough  to  reach  down  to  my  hand  ;  and  many  were  the  rustic 
jokes  passed  upon  the  disproportioned  pair,  who  might  fitly  have 
represented  Brobdignag  and  Lilliput.  My  tall  colleague  proved, 
however,  as  well-natured  as  giants  commonly  are  everywhere  but 
in  fairy  tales,  and  took  as  good  care  of  his  little  partner  as  if  she 
had  been  a  proper  match  for  him  in  age  and  size. 

In  this  order,  followed  by  the  parents  on  both  sides,  and  a  due 
number  of  uncles,  aunts,  and  cousins,  we  entered  the  church, 
where  I  held  the  glove  with  all  the  gravity  and  importance  proper 
to  my  office  ;  and  so  contagious  is  emotion,  and  so  accustomed 
was  I  to  sympathize  with  Nancy,  that  when  the  bride  cried,  I 
could  not  help  crying  for  company.  But  it  was  a  love-match, 
and  between  smiles  and  blushes  Nancy's  tears  soon  disappeared, 
and  so  by  the  same  contagion  did  mine.  The  happy  husband 
helped  his  pretty  wife  into  her  own  chaise-cart,  my  friend  the 


A    LITEKAKY    LIFE.  129 

blacksmith  lifted  me  in  after  her,  and  we  drove  gayly  to  the  large, 
comfortable  farm-house  where  her  future  life  was  to  be  spent. 

It  was  a  bright  morniug,  i,n  May,  and  I  still  remember  when 
we  drove  up  to  the  low  wall  which  parted  the  front  garden  from 
the  winding  village  road,  the  mixture  of  affection  and  honest 
pride  which  lighted  up  the  face  of  the  owner.  The  square,  sub- 
stantial brick  house,  covered  with  a  vine,  the  brick  porch  gar- 
landed with  honeysuckles  and  sweet-brier,  the  espalier  apple- 
trees  on  either  side  the  path  in  full  flower,  the  double  row  of 
thrift  with  its  dull  pink  bloom,  the  stocks  and  wallflowers  under 
the  vvdndow,  the  huge  barns  full  of  corn,  the  stacks  of  all  shapes 
and  sizes  in  the  rick-yard,  cows  and  sheep  and  pigs  and  poultry 
told  a  pleasant  tale  of  rural  comfort  and  rural  affluence. 

The  bride  was  taken  to  survey  her  new  dominions  by  her  proud 
bridegroom,  and  the  blacksmith  finding  me,  I  suppose,  easier  to 
caiTy  than  to  lead,  followed  close  upon  their  steps  with  me  in  his 
arms. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  good-nature  of  ray  country  beau  ;  he 
pointed  out  bantams  and  pea-fowls,  and  took  me  to  see  a  tame 
lamb,  and  a  tall,  staggering  calf,  born  that  morning  ;  but  for  all 
that,  I  do  not  think  I  should  have  submitted  so  quietly  to  the  in- 
dignity of  being  carried,  I,  who  had  ridden  thither  on  Brown 
Bess,  and  was  at  that  instant  filling  the  ostensible  place  of  brides- 
maid, if  it  had  not  been  for  the  chastening  influence  of  a  little 
touch  of  fear.  Entering  the  poultry-yard  1  had  caught  sight  of 
a  certain  turkey-cock,  who  erected  that  circular  tail  of  his,  and 
swelled  out  his  deep-red  comb  and  gills  after  a  fashion  familiar  to 
that  truculent  bird,  but  which  up  to  the  present  hour  I  am  far 
from  admiring.  A  turkey  at  Christmas  well  roasted  with  bread 
sauce,  may  have  his  merits  ;  but  if  I  meet  him  alive  in  his  feath- 
ers, especially  when  he  swells  them  out  and  sticks  up  his  tail,  I 
commonly  get  out  of  his  way  even  now,  much  more  sixty  years 
ago.     So  1  let  the  blacksmith  carry  me. 

Then  we  went  to  the  dairy,  so  fresh  and  cool  and  clean — glit- 
tering with  cleanliness  !  overflowing  with  creamy  riches  !  and 
there  I  had  the  greatest  enjoyment  of  my  whole  day,  the  printing 
with  my  own  hands  a  pat  of  butter,  and  putting  it  up  in  a  little 
basket  covered  with  a  vine  leaf,  to  take  home  for  the  dear  mam- 
ma's tea.  Then  we  should  have  gone  to  the  kitchen,  the  back 
kitchen,  the    brew-house,  the  wash-house,  and    the   rest  of  the 


130  R  ECO  I>LKCT  IONS    OF 

bride's  new  tenilories,  but  tliis  p;irl  of  tlie  doiiiicil  was  literally 
too  bot  to  liold  us;  the  cooking  of"  the  great  wedding  dinner  was 
in  lull  activity,  and  the  bridegroom  4niittS*'ll"  was  forced  to  retreat 
before  his  notable  mother,  who  had  come  to  superintend  all  things 
for  the  day. 

So  back  we  drew  to  the  hall,  a  large  square  brick  apartment, 
with  a  beam  across  the  ceiling,  a  wide  yawning  chimney,  and 
wooden  settles  with  backs  to  them  ;  where  many  young  people 
being  assembled,  and  one  of  them  producing  a  fiddle,  it  was 
agreed  to  have  a  country  dance  until  dinner  should  be  ready,  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  leading  off,  and  I  following  with  the  bride- 
groom's man. 

Oh,  the  blunders,  the  confusion,  the  merriment  of  that  country 
dance  !  No  two  people  attempted  the  same  figure  ;  few  aimed  at 
any  figure  at  all  ;  each  Avent  his  own  way  ;  many  stumbled  ; 
some  fell,  and  every  body  capered,  laughed  and  shouted  at  once. 
My  partner  prudently  caught  me  up  in  his  arms  again,  for  fear  of 
my  being  knocked  down  and  danced  over,  which,  considering 
some  of  the  exploits  of  some  of  the  performers,  seemed  by  no 
means  impossible,  and  would  have  been  a  worse  catastrophe  than 
an  onslaught  of  the  turkey-cock. 

A  summons  to  dinner  put  an  end  to  the  glee.  Such  a  dinner  I 
The  plenty  of  Camacho's  wedding  was  but  a  type  of  my  Nancy's. 
Fish  from  the  great  pond,  roast  beef  and  Yorkshire  pudding,  boiled 
fowls  and  a  gammon  of  bacon,  a  green  goose  and  a  sucking  pig, 
plum  puddings,  apple  pies,  cheese-cakes  and  custards,  formed  a 
part  of  the  bill  of  fare,  followed  by  home-brewed  beer  and  home- 
made wine,  by  syllabub,  and  by  wedding  cake.  Every  body  ate 
enougli  for  four,  and  there  was  four  times  more  than  could  by  any 
possibility  be  eaten.  I  have  always  thought  it  one  of  the  strongest 
proofs  of  sense  and  kindness  in  my  pretty  maid,  that  she  rescued 
me  fi'om  the  terrible  hospitality  of  her  mother-in-law,  and  gave 
me  back  unscathed  into  my  father's  hands,  when  about  three 
o'clock  he  arrived  to  reclaim  me. 

The  affluence  and  abundance  of  that  gala  day — the  great  gala 
of  a  life-time — in  that  Hampshire  farm-house,  I  have  never  seen 
surpassed. 

This  was  my  first  appearance  as  a  bridesmaid.  My  next, 
which  took  place  about  a  twelvemonth  after,  was  of  a  very  difler- 
ent  description. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE,  131 

A  first  cousin  of  my  father,  the  daughter  of  his  uncle  and  guar- 
dian, had,  by  the  death  of  her  mother's  brother,  become  a  wealthy 
heiress  ;  and  leaving  her  picturesque  old  mansion  in  Northum- 
berland, Little  Harle  Tower,  a  true  border  keep  overhanging  the 
Warsbeck,  for  a  journey  to  what  the  Northumbrians  of  that  day 
emphatically  called  "the  South,"  came  after  a  season  in  London 
to  pass  some  months  with  us.  At  our  house  she  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  brother  of  a  Scotch  Duke,  an  Oxford  student, 
who,  passing  the  long  vacation  with  his  mother,  had  nothing  bet- 
ter to  do  than  to  fall  in  love.  Each  had  what  the  other  wanted — 
the  lady  money,  the  gentleman  rank  ;  and  as  his  family  were 
charmed  with  the  match,  and  hers,  had  neither  the  power  nor  the 
wish  to  oppose  it,  every  thing  was  arranged  with  as  little  delay 
as  lawyers,  jewelers,  coach-makers,  and  mantua-makers  would 
permit. 

How  the  first  step  in  the  business,  the  inevitable  and  awful 
ceremonial  of  a  declaration  of  love  and  a  proposal  of  marriage, 
was  ever  brought  about,  has  always  been  to  me  one  of  the  most 
unsolvable  of  mysteries — an  enigma  without  the  word. 

Lord  Charles,  as  fine  a  young  man  as  one  should  see  in  a  sum- 
mer's day,  tall,  well  made,  with  handsome  features,  fair  capacity, 
excellent  education,  and  charming  temper,  had  an  infirmity 
which  went  nigh  to  render  all  these  good  gifts  of  no  avail  :  a 
shyness,  a  bashfulness,  a  timidity  most  painful  to  himself,  and 
distressing  to  all  about  him.  It  is  not  uncommon  to  hear  a  quiet, 
silent  man  of  rank,  unjustly  suspected  of  pride  and  haughtiness  ; 
but  there  could  be  no  such  mistake  here, — his  shamefacedness 
was  patent  to  all  men.  I  myself  a  child  not  five  years  old,  one 
day  threw  him  into  an  agony  of  blushing,  by  running  up  to  his 
chair  in  mistake  for  my  papa.  Now  I  was  a  shy  child,  a  very 
shy  child,  and  as  soon  as  I  arrived  in  front  of  his  Lordship,  and 
found  that  I  had  been  misled  by  a  resemblance  of  dress,  by  the 
blue  coat  and  bull'  waistcoat,  I  first  of  all  crept  under  the  table, 
and  then  flew  to  hide  my  face  in  my  mother's  lap  ;  my  poor 
fellow-suflerer,  too  big  for  one  place  of  refuge,  too  old  for  Die 
other,  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  run  away,  which,  the  door  being 
luckily  open,  he  happily  accomplished. 

That  a  man  with  such  a  temperament,  wlio  could  hardly  sum- 
mon courage  enough  to  say  •'  IIow  d'ye  do  ?"  should  ever  have 
wrought  himself  up  to  the  point  of  putting  the  great  question, 


132  KECOL  LECTIONS    UF 

was  woiuli'vliil  onoupli  ;  that  ho  sliould  have  siibuiilted  himself 
to  uiulergo  the  ordeal  of  what  was  called  in  those  days  a  public 
wedding,  was  more  wonderful  still. 

Perhaps  the  very  diflerent  temper  of  the  lady  may  ofl'cr  some 
solution  to  the  last  of  these  riddles  ;  perhaps  (I  say  it  iu  all  honor, 
for  there  is  no  shame  in  offering  some  encouragement  to  a  bash- 
ful suitor)  it  may  assist  us  in  expounding  them  both. 

Of  a  certainty,  my  fair  cousin  was  pre-eminently  gifted  with 
those  very  qualities  in.  which  her  lover  was  deficient.  Every 
thing  about  her  was  prompt  and  bright,  cheeriul  and  self-pos- 
sessed. Nearly  as  tall  as  himself,  and  quite  as  handsome,  it  was 
of  the  beauty  that  is  called  showy — a  showy  face,  a  showy  fig- 
ure, a  showy  complexion.  We  felt  at  a  glance  that  those  ra- 
diant, well-opened  hazel  eyes,  had  never  quailed  before  mortal 
glance,  and  that  that  clear  round  cheek,  red  and  white  like  a 
daisy,  had  never  been  guilty  of  a  blush  in  its  whole  life.  Hand- 
some as  she  was,  it  was  a  figure  that  looked  best  in  a  riding- 
habit,  and  a  face  that  of  all  head-dresses,  best  became  a  beaver 
hat ;  just  a  face  and  figure  for  a  procession  ;  she  would  not  have 
minded  a  coronation  :  on  the  contrary,  she  would  have  been  en- 
chanted to  have  been  a  queen-i-egent  ;  but  as  a  coronation  was 
out  of  the  question,  she  had  no  objection,  taking  the  publicity  as 
a  part  of  the  happiness,  to  a  wedding  as  grand  as  the  resources 
of  a  country  town  could  make  it. 

So  a  wedding  procession  was  organized,  after  the  fashion  of 
Sir  Charles  Grandison,  comprising  the  chief  members  of  each 
family,  especially  of  the  ducal  one  ;  an  infinite  number  of  broth- 
ers, sisters,  nephews,  nieces,  cousins  and  clansfolk,  friends  and 
acquaintances,  all  arranged  in  different  carriages,  according  to 
their  rank  ;  ladies,  gentlemen,  servants,  and  horses,  decorated 
with  white  and  silver  favors,  in  so  long  a  line,  that  it  extended 
from  Coley  Avenue  to  St.  Mary's  Church.  The  first  carriage,  a 
low  phaeton,  drawn  by  ponies  led  by  grooms,  containing  three 
children,  two  of  five  and  six  years  old,  niece  and  nephew  of  the 
bridegroom,  who,  with  myself  (already  a  lady  of  experience  in 
that  line),  were  to  ofEciate  as  bride-maidens  and  bridegroom's 
man  ;  the  last,  also  an  open  carriage,  with  only  the  bride  and 
my  dear  papa,  who  gave  her  away. 

How  well  I  recollect  the  crowd  of  the  street,  the  crowd  of  the 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  133 

church-yard,  the  crowd  of  the  church  !  There  was  no  crying  at 
this  wedding  though  ;  no  crying,  and  far  fewer  smiles. 

The  young  couple  proceeded  to  Bath  and  Clifton  from  the 
church  door ;  and  the  rest  of  the  procession  returned  to  our  house 
to  eat  bridecake,  drink  to  the  health  of  the  new-married  pair,  and 
be  merry  at  their  leisure  ;  after  which  many  dispersed,  but  the 
members  of  the  two  families  and  the  more  intimate  friends  re- 
mained to  dinner  ;  and  in  the  confusion  of  preparing  to  entertain 
so  large  a  party,  the  servants,  even  those  belonging  to  the  nursery, 
were  engaged  in  different  ways,  and  we  children  left  to  our  own 
devices,  and  finding  nearly  the  whole  house  free  to  our  incur- 
sions, betook  ourselves  to  a  game  at  hide-and-seek. 

Now  in  honor  of  the  day,  and  of  the  grand  part  we  had  filled 
in  the  grand  ceremony  of  the  morning,  we  small  people  had  been 
arrayed  in  white  from  top  to  toe.  Master  Martin  in  a  new  suit  of 
jean,  richly  braided,  his  sister  and  myself  in  clear  muslin  frocks, 
edged  with  lace,  and  long  Persian  sashes,  the  whole  width  of  the 
silk,  fringed  with  silver,  while  all  parties,  little  boy  and  little 
girls,  had  white  beaver  hats  and  heavy  ostrich  plumes.  We 
young  ladies  had,  as  matter  of  course,  that  instinctive  respect  for 
our  own  finery  which  seems  an  innate  principle  in  womankind  ; 
moreover,  we  were  very  good  children,  quiet,  orderly,  and  obe- 
dient. Master  Martin,  on  the  other  hand,  our  elder  by  a  year, 
had  some  way  or  other  imbibed  the  contempt  at  once  for  fine 
clothes  and  for  the  authorities  of  the  nursery,  which  is  not  un- 
common among  his  rebellious  sex  ;  so  the  first  time  it  fell  to  his 
lot  to  hide,  he  ensconced  himself  in  the  very  innermost  recesses 
of  the  coalhole,  from  which  delightful  retirement  he  was  drag- 
ged, after  a  long  search,  by  his  own  maid,  who  had  at  last 
awakened  from  the  joys  of  gossiping  and  making  believe  to  help 
in  the  housekeeper's  room,  to  the  recollection  that  Lady  Mary 
might  possibly  inquire  after  her  children.  The  state  of  his  ap- 
parel and  of  her  temper  may  be  more  easily  imagined  than  do- 
scribed.  He,  Duke's  grandson  though  he  were,  looked  like  noth- 
ing better  or  worse  than  a  chimney-sweeper.  She  stormed  like 
a  fury.  But  as  all  the  storming  in  the  world  would  not  restore 
the  young  gentleman  or  his  bridal  suit  to  their  pristine  state  of 
cleanliness,  she  took  wit  in  her  anger  and  put  him  to  bed,  as  a 
measure  partly  of  punishment,  partly  of  concealment  ; — the  result 
of  which  was  that  he,  the  culprit,  thoroughly  tired  with  e.xcitc- 


lt)-i  KK  I'C)  L  1,  KC  ri  ONS     OK 

imMit  niiii  oxorciso,  with  phi)'  and  display,  ami  woll  sliilil'd  with 
daiiitiis  111  krcp  him  quiet,  was  consigned  to  his  coinfortalde  bed, 
whik'  wo  patleni  little  girls  had  to  undergo  the  penalty  of  making 
our  appearance  and  our  courtesies  in  the  drawing-room,  among  all 
the  fine  folks  oi  our  Camacho's  wedding,  and  to  stay  there,  wea- 
riest of  the  many  weary,  two  or  three  houi-s  beyond  our  accus- 
tomed time.  With  so  little  justice  are  the  rewai'ds  and  punisli- 
ments  of  this  world  distributed — even  in  the  nursery  ! 

Not  long  after  this  I  made  my  first  visit  to  London,  under  the 
auspices  and  in  company  of  the  dear  papa.  Business  called  him 
thither  in  the  middle  of  July,  and  he  suddenly  announced  his  in- 
tention of  driving  me  up  in  his  gig — such  was  the  then  word  for 
a  high,  open  carriage  holding  two  persons  I — unencumbered  by 
any  other  companion,  male  or  female.  George  only,  the  old 
groom,  was  sent  forward  with  a  spare  horse  over-night  to  Maid- 
enhead Bridge  (ah  I  that  charming  inn  is  un-inned  now-a-days 
by  the  railways  I),  and  the  dear  papa,  conforming  to  my  nursery 
hours,  we  dined  at  Cranford  Bridge  (I  dare  say  that  that  hotel, 
with  its  pretty  garden  and  its  Portugal  laurels,  has  disappeared 
also),  and  reached  Hatchett's  Hotel,  Piccadilly  (the  New  White 
Horse  Cellar  of  the  old  stage-coaches)  early  in  the  afternooh. 
There  a  steady,  civil  barmaid  undertook  the  care  of  me  during 
our  stay  ;  but,  as  he  had  foreseen,  I  was  too  much  awake  and 
alive  with  novelty  and  amusement,  too  strong  in  my  happiness, 
to  want  any  body  to  take  care  of  me,  except  the  dear  papa  him- 
self. 

I  had  enjoyed  the  drive  past  all  expression,  chattering  all  the 
way,  and  falling  into  no  other  mistakes  than  those  common  to 
larger  people  than  myself,  of  thinking  that  London  began  at 
Brentford,  and  wondering  in  Piccadilly  when  the  crowd  would 
go  by  ;  and  I  was  so  little  tired  when  we  arrived,  that,  to  lose  no 
time,  we  betook  ourselves  that  night  to  the  Haymarket  Theater, 
the  only  one  then  open.  I  had  been  at  plays  in  the  country,  in 
a  barn  in  Hampshire,  and  at  a  regular  theater  at  our  new  home, 
and  I  loved  them  dearly  with  that  confiding  and  uncritical  pleas- 
ure which  is  the  wisest  and  the  best.  But  the  country  play 
was  nothing  to  the  London  play — a  lively  comedy,  with  the  rich 
cast  of  those  days — one  of  the  comedies  that  George  IH.  enjoyed 
60  heartily.  I  enjoyed  it  as  much  as  he,  and  laughed  and  clapped 
my  hands,  and  danced  on  my  father's  knee,  and  almost  screamed 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  135 

with  delight,  so  that  a  party  in  the  same  box,  who  had  begun  by 
being  half-angry  at  my  restlessness,  finished  by  being  amused 
with  my  amusement. 

The  next  day,  my  father  having  an  appointment  at  the  Bank, 
took  the  opportunity  of  showing  me  St.  Paul's  and  the  Tower. 

At  St.  Paul's,  I  saw  all  the  wonders  of  the  place  :  whispered 
in  the  whispering-gallery,  and  walked  up  the  tottering  wooden 
stairs,  not  into  the  ball  itself,  but  to  the  circular  balustrade  of 
the  highest  gallery  beneath  it.  I  have  never  been  there  since, 
but  I  can  still  recall  most  vividly  that  M'onderful  panorama,  the 
strange  diminution  produced  by  the  distance,  the  toylike  car- 
riages and  horses,  and  men  and  women  moving  noiselessly  through 
the  toylike  streets  ;  and  (although  not  frightened  then)  still  more 
vividly  do  I  recall  the  dangerous  slate  of  the  decaying  stairs,  the 
swaying  rope  to  hold  by,  the  light  showing  through  the  crevices 
of  the  wood.  My  father  held  me  carefully  by  the  hand  ;  and  I 
have  no  recollection  of  having  felt  the  slightest  fear ;  neverthe- 
less the  impression  of  danger  must  have  been  very  great  since, 
for  many  years  of  my  life  falling  through  those  stairs  was  my  bad 
dream,  the  dream  that  gives  such  sure  warning  of  physical  ill, 
when  fever  is  impending,  or  any  derangement  occurs  in  the  sys- 
tem. Then  we  proceeded  to  the  Tower,  that  place  so  striking 
by  force  of  contrast ;  its  bright  lights  and  strong  shadows  ;  the 
jewels,  the  armor,  the  armory,  glittering  in  stern  magnificence 
amid  the  gloom  of  the  old  fortress,  and  the  stories  of  great  per- 
sonages imprisoned,  beheaded,  buried  within  its  walls  ; — a  dreary 
thing  it  seemed  to  be  a  Clueen  !  But  at  night  I  went  to  Astley's, 
find  I  forgot  the  sorrows  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Anne  Boleyn  in 
the  wonders  of  the  horsemanship  and  the  tricks  of  the  clown. 
After  all,  Astley's,  although  very  well  in  its  way,  was  not  the 
play,  and  we  agreed  that  the  next  night,  tlie  last  we  were  to 
sj)end  in  London,  we  should  go  again  to  the  Haymarket. 

Into  that  last  day  we  crowded  all  the  sight-seeing  possible,  the 
Houses  of  Lords  and  Commons,  where  1  sat  upon  the  woolsack 
and  in  the  S|>eaker's  chair,  about  the  smallest  person,  I  supjjose, 
that  ever  filled  those  eminent  seats.  Then  Westminster  Abbey, 
where,  besides  the  glorious  old  building  and  the  tombs,  figured  at 
that  time  certain  figures  in  waxwork,  Glueen  Anne  and  (nlueen 
Elizabeth  as  ugly  as  life,  and  General  Monk  holding  out  his  cap 
for  money.     I  remember  my  father  giving  me  a  shilling  to  drop 


lotj  HECOLLKOTIOMS    OF 

in  as  our  share  of  tlio  contribution,  and  my  wondering  what  be- 
came of*  it  (are  those  figures  in  existence  now  ?  and  does  the 
General  still  hold  ibrth  the  eleemosynary  cap?)  Thence  we  pro- 
ceeded to  Cox's  Museum  in  Spring  Gardens,  and  saw  and  heard 
a  little  bird,  who  seemed  made  of  diamonds  and  rubies,  who  clapped 
his  wings  and  sang.  There,  too  (it  was  a  place  full  of  strange 
deceptions),  I  sat  down  upon  a  chair,  and  the  cushion  forthwith 
began  to  squeak  like  a  cat  and  kittens,  so  like  a  cat  and  kittens 
that  I  more  than  half  expected  to  be  scratched.  And  then  to 
the  Leverian  Museum  in  the  Blackfriars  Road,  a  delightful  abode 
of  birds  and  butterflies,  where  I  saw  dead  and  stuffed  with  a 
reality  that  wanted  nothing  but  life,  nearly  all  the  beautiful 
creatures  that  little  girls  see  now  alive  at  the  Zoological.  The 
promised  visit  to  the  Haymarket  Theater  formed  a  fit  conclusion 
to  this  day  of  enchantment.  We  saw  another  capital  comedy  (I 
think  Colman's  "  Heir  at  Law")  capitally  acted,  and  laughed 
until  we  could  laugh  no  longer.  And  then  the  next  day  wc 
drove  home  without  a  moment's  weariness  of  mind  or  body. 

Such  was  my  first  journey  to  London. 

Upon  looking  back  to  that  journey  of  nearly  sixty  years  ago, 
what  strikes  me  most  is  the  small  dimensions  to  which  the  capi- 
tal of  England  was  then  confined,  compared  with  those  which  it 
now  covers.  When  I  stood  on  the  topmost  gallery  of  St.  Paul's, 
I  saw  a  compact  city,  spreading  along  the  river,  it  is  true,  from 
Billingsgate  to  Westminster,  but  clearly  defined  to  the  north  and 
to  the  south,  the  West  End  beginning  at  Hyde  Park  Corner,  and 
bordered  by  Hyde  Park  on  the  one  side  and  the  Green  Park  on 
the  other.  Then,  in  spite  of  my  mistaking  the  stones  of  Brent- 
ford for  the  stones  of  London,  Belgravia  was  a  series  of  pastures, 
and  Paddington  a  village.  Now  squares  and  terraces  are  closing 
round  the  terminus  of  the  Great  Western,  and  the  stateliest  man- 
sions of  the  metropolis  cover  the  green  fields  which  separated 
Sloane-street  from  Pimlico.  People  wonder  at  the  size  of  the 
Great  Exhibition,  but  the  town  of  which  it  forms  a  part,  that 
throbbing  heart  of  a  great  nation,  seems  to  me  more  wonderful 
far.  To  describe  London  as  it  is,  or  even  in  a  few  pages  to  enu- 
merate the  sights  which  we  should  show  to  a  child  now,  would 
be  as  impossible  a  task  as  to  crowd  into  the  same  space  the  mar- 
vels contained  in  Mr.  Paxton's  wonderful  house  of  glass. 

Far  more  impossible  I  for  a  very  few  lines  would  comprise  the 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  137 

chief  impression  produced  upon  me  when  escorted  by  my  excellent 
friend  Mr.  Lucas,  and  guided  by  the  fine  taste  of  that  most  taste- 
ful of  painters,  I  walked  through  the  Great  Exhibition  this 
summer.  Next  perhaps  to  the  building  itself,  with  the  statues 
and  hangings  to  which  it  owes  its  distinctive  character,  and  the 
fountains  and  people  who  give  to  it  movement  and  life  ; — next 
to  the  vastness,  the  lightness,  the  exquisite  fitness  of  the  building  ; 
and  excepting  perhaps  only  that  triumph  of  modern  sculpture — 
Kiss's  bold,  expressive,  impassioned  group — that  which  most  filled 
the  eye  and  the  mind  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  Indian  tissues,  how- 
ever called,  M'ith  their  delicious  harmony  of  color,  and  their 
strange  power  of  interweaving  the  precious  metals  with  their 
silken  textures.  There  is  one  shawl  where  upon  a  white  ground 
the  same  pattern  is  repeated  now  in  gold  and  now  in  silver,  which 
seems  to  me  actually  to  emit  light.  Those  Indian  draperies  are 
poems  which  have  no  need  of  words,  forms  invented  thousands  of 
years  ago,  and  repeated  from  dynasty  to  dynasty,  from  empire  to 
empire.  So  are  those  Tunisian  vases,  forms  of  inefTable  grace  such 
as  may  have  been  carried  to  the  fountain  or  the  well  by  the  cap- 
tive queens  of  Grecian  fable  or  the  Hebrew  maidens  of  sacred 
history.  Is  it  that  those  ancient  nations  of  the  East  and  of  the 
South  have  in  them  the  great  principle  of  permanence  which  is 
a  sort  of  earthly  immortality  ?  that  having  once  seized  the  Beau- 
tiful, they  are  content  to  abide  by  it  and  to  produce  and  repro- 
duce the  same  grace  of  form  and  harmony  of  color,  just  as  nature 
herself  is  content  to  produce  and  reproduce  her  marvels  of  vegeta- 
ble life,  her  lotus  on  the  river,  her  magnolia  in  the  wood  ?  If  so, 
let  us  strive  to  copy  them,  not  in  such  a  combination  of  hues,  or 
such  lines  of  contour,  but  in  the  greater  wisdom  of  loving  and  ad- 
miring beauty  because  it  is  beautiful,  and  not  because  according 
to  the  caprice  of  the  hour  it  happens  to  be  new  or  to  be  old. 

It  is  now  full  time  to  come  to  Dr.  Johnson. 

The  London  which  I  saw  sixty  years  ago  was  not  materially 
different  from  that  in  which  he  had  lived  and  reigned — the  king 
of  conversation  and  almost  of  literature.  One  proof  of  this  su- 
premacy was  afforded  at  that  very  time  when  my  father,  by  no 
means  a  bookish  man  and  a  most  ardent  Whig,  stopped  the 
coach  two  or  throe  times  during  our  drive  to  the  Bank,  to  show 
me  Bolt  Court  and  various  other  courts  distinguished  by  the  resi- 
dence of  the  great  lexicographer.     Boswell's  inimitable  life  had 


13S  KECOLLKCTIOXS    OF 

of  course  its  share  in  lliis  interest ;  but  independently  of  that  re- 
markable book  the  feeling  was  deep  and  was  general ;  and  when 
■we  consider  that  the  society  of  which  he  Avas  the  acknowledged 
head  comprised  such  names  as  Burke,  and  Fox,  and  Eeynolds. 
and  Goldsmith,  we  can  not  doubt  but  in  spite  of  h  s  virulent 
prejudices,  his  absurd  superstition,  and  his  latinized  English, 
Samuel  Johnson  was  not  only  a  good  man  but  a  great  man. 

One  who  was  pre-eminently  both.  Dr.  Channing,  Reiiublican 
by  nation  and  opinion.  Unitarian  by  creed,  has  a  passage  relating 
to  Johnson,  which,  while  alledging  nearly  all  that  can  be  said 
against  him,  always  struck  me  as  admirable  for  justice  and  for 
candor — the  candor  of  an  adversary  and  an  opponent.  It  occurs 
in  a  "  Review  of  the  Writings  and  Character  of  Milton,"  in  which 
the  American  author  had,  as  matter  of  course,  controveiied  the 
decisions  of  the  English  critic.  He  says — I  omit  much  that  re- 
lates only  to  Milton — he  says  : 

"  We  wish  not  to  disparage  Johnson.  We  could  find  no 
pleasure  in  sacrificing  one  great  man  to  the  manes,  of  another. 
He  did  not  and  he  could  not  appreciate  Milton.  We  doubt 
whether  two  other  minds,  having  so  little  in  common  as  those  of 
which  we  are  now  speaking,  can  be  found  in  the  higher  walks 
of  literature.  Johnson  was  great  in  his  own  sphere,  but  that 
sphere  was  comparatively  of  the  earth,  while  Milton's  was  only 
inferior  to  that  of  angels.  It  was  customary  in  the  day  of  John- 
son's glory  to  call  him  a  giant,  to  class  him  with  a  mighty  but  still 
an  earth-born  race.  Milton  we  should  rank  among  seraphs. 
Johnson's  mind  acted  chiefly  on  man's  actual  condition,  on  the 
realities  of  life,  on  the  springs  of  human  action,  on  the  passions 
Avhich  now  agitate  society,  and  he  seems  hardly  to  have  dreamed 
of  a  higher  state  of  the  human  mind  than  was  then  exhibited. 
*  *  *  In  religion,  Johnson  was  gloomy  and  inclined  to  supersti- 
tion, and  on  the  subject  of  government  leaned  to  absolute  power, 
and  the  idea  of  reforming  either  never  entered  his  mind  but  to 
disturb  and  provoke  it.  How  could  Johnson  be  just  to  Milton  ? 
The  comparison  which  we  have  instituted  has  compelled  us  to 
notice  Johnson's  defects  :  but  we  trust  we  are  not  blind  to  his 
merits.  His  stately  march,  his  pomp  and  power  of  language,  his 
strength  of  thought,  his  reverence  for  virtue  and  religion,  his 
vigorous  logic,  his  practical  wisdom,  his  insight  into  the  springs 
of  human  action,  and  the  solemn  pathos  which  occasionally  per- 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  139 

vades  his  descript'ons  of  life  and  his  references  to  his  own  history 
command  our  willing  admiration.  That  he  wanted  enthusiasm 
and  creative  imagination  and  lofty  sentiment  was  not  his  fault. 
We  do  not  blame  him  for  not  being  Milton.  We  would  even 
treat  what  we  deem  the  faults  of  Johnson  with  a  tenderness  ap- 
proaching respect  ;  for  they  were  results  to  a  degree  which  man 
can  not  estimate  of  a  diseased,  irritable,  nervous,  unhappy,  physi- 
cal temperament,  and  belonged  to  the  body  more  than  to  the 
mind."  So  far  the  great  American.  Would  that  all  critics  had 
his  charity  I 

In  none  of  Dr.  Channing's  praises  of  Johnson  do  I  join  more 
cordially  than  in  the  admiration  with  which  he  speaks  of  his 
occasional  references  to  his  own  history.  I  subjoin  the  letter  to 
Lord  Chesterfield  which  comprises  so  many  of  the  distinguishing 
characteristics  of  his  style,  together  with  a  pungency,  a  truth, 
and  a  pathos  which  belong  even  more  to  personal  character  than 
to  literary  power.     It  explains  itself: 

"  My  Lord, 

"  I  have  lately  been  informed  by  the  pi'oprietor  of '  The  World,' 
that  two  papers  in  which  my  Dictionary  is  recommended  to  the 
public  were  written  by  your  Lordship.  To  be  so  distinguished 
is  an  honor  which,  being  very  little  accustomed  to  favors  from 
the  great,  I  know  not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in  what  terms  to 
acknowledge. 

"  When  upon  .some  slight  encouragement  I  first  visited  your 
Lordship,  I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by  the 
enchantment  of  your  address  ;  and  could  not  forbear  to  wish  that 
I  might  boast  myself  Le  vaiiiqueur  da  vaimpinir  de  la  terre, 
that  I  might  obtain  that  regard  for  which  I  saw  the  world  con- 
tending ;  but  I  found  my  attendance  so  little  encouraged,  that 
neither  pride  nor  modesty  would  suffer  me  to  continue  it.  When 
I  had  once  addressed  your  Lordship  in  public,  I  had  exhausted 
all  the  art  of  pleasing  which  a  retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can 
possess.  I  had  done  all  I  could  ;  and  no  man  is  well  pleased  to 
have  his  all  neglected,  be  it  ever  so  little. 

"  Seven  years,  my  Lord,  have  now  passed  since  I  waited  in 
your  outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door  ;  during 
which  time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through  difficulties 
of  which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought  it  at  last  to 


140  KECOLLECTiOXS    OF 

tlie  verge  of  publication,  without  one  act  of  assistance,  one  word 
of  eucourapeinent,  or  one  smile  of  favor.  Such  treatment  I  did 
not  expect,  for  1  never  had  a  patron  before. 

"  The  Shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love, 
and  found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

"  Is  not  a  jjatron,  my  Lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on 
a  man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and  when  he  has  reached 
ground  encumbers  him  with  help  ?  The  notice  which  you  have 
been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labors,  had  it  been  early  had  been 
kind  ;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  can  not 
enjoy  it  ;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  can  not  impart  it  ;  till  I  am 
known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity 
not  to  confess  obligations  where  no  benefit  has  been  received,  or 
to  be  unwilling  that  the  public  should  consider  me  as  owing 
that  to  a  patron  which  Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for  my- 
self. 

"  Having  carried  on  my  work,  therefore,  with  so  little  obliga- 
tion to  any  favorer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed 
though  I  should  conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less  ;  for  I 
have  been  long  wakened  from  that  dream  of  hope  in  which  I 
once  boasted  myself  with  so  much  exultation, 

"  My  Lord, 
"  Your  Lordship's  most  humble, 

"  Most  obedient  servant, 
"  Samuel  Johnson." 

My  concluding  extract  is  of  a  very  different  description — as 
different  as  the  character  and  situation  of  the  two  persons  to 
whom  the  letter  and  the  stanzas  relate.  These  verses  again  tell 
their  own  story,  though  they  do  not  tell  the  whole,  for  Johnson, 
poor  himself,  was  to  the  poor  apothecary  a  generous  patron  and 
an  unfailing  friend.  The  poem  has  much  of  the  homely  pathos, 
the  graphic  truth  of  Crabbe,  and  is  so  free  from  manner,  that  it 
might  rather  pass  for  his  than  for  Dr.  Johnson's. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ROBERT  LEVETT. 

Condemned  to  Hope's  delusive  mine, 

As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 
By  sudden  blast  or  slow  decline 

Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE,  141 

Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year, 

See  Levett  to  the  grave  descend 
Officious,  innocent,  sincere, 

Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  fills  Affection's  eye 

Obscurely  wise  and  coarsely  kind, 
Nor  lettered  arrogance  deny 

Thy  praise  to  merit  undefined. 

When  fainting  Nature  called  for  aid, 

And  hovering  Death  prepared  the  blow, 
His  vigorous  remedy  displayed 

The  power  of  Art  without  the  show. 

In  misery's  darkest  caverns  known, 

His  ready  help  was  ever  nigh. 
Where  helpless  anguish  poured  his  groan, 

And  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons  mocked  by  chill  delay. 

No  petty  gains  disdained  by  pride ; 
The  modest  wants  of  every  day, 

The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 

His  virtues  walked  their  narrow  round. 

Nor  made  a  pause  nor  left  a  void ; 
And  sure  the  Eternal  Master  found. 

His  single  talent  well  employed. 

The  busy  day,  the  peaceful  night, 

Unfelt,  uncounted,  glided  by ; 
His  frame  was  firm,  his  powers  were  bright, 

Though  now  his  eightieth  year  was  nigh. 

Then  with  no  throbs  of  fiery  pain. 
No  cold  gradations  of  decay, 
Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain, 
And  freed  his  soul  the  nearest  way. 


142  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


XII. 

OLD    POETS. 

ROBERT    IlERRICK— GEORGE    WITHER. 

Nothing  seems  stranger  in  the  critics  of  the  last  century  than 
their  ignorance  of  the  charming  lyrical  poetry  of  the  times  of  the 
early  Stuarts  and  the  Commonwealth.  One  should  think  that 
the  songs  of  the  great  dramatists,  wliose  genius  they  did  acknowl- 
edge—  Shakspeare,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  Ben  Jonson — 
might  have  prepared  them  to  recognize  the  kindred  melodies  of 
such  versifiers  as  Marlowe,  and  Raleigh,  and  Withers,  and  Mar- 
veil.  His  Jacobite  prejudices  might  have  predisposed  Dr.  John- 
son, in  particular,  to  find  some  harmonious  stanzas  in  the  min- 
strels of  the  cavaliers,  Lovelace  and  the  Marquis  of  Montrose. 
But  so  complete  is  the  silence  in  which  the  writers  of  that  day 
pass  over  these  glorious  songsters,  that  it  seems  only  charitable  to 
suppose  that  these  arbiters  of  taste  had  never  met  with  their 
works.  With  the  honorable  exceptions  of  Thomas  Wharton  and 
Bishop  Percy,  there  is  not  a  critic  from  Johnson  downward  who 
does  not  cite  Waller  as  the  first  poet  who  smoothed  our  rugged 
tongue  into  harmonious  verse.  And  the  prejudice  lingers  still  in 
places  where  one  does  not  expect  to  find  it.  The  parish  clerk  of 
Beaconsfield  is  by  no  means  the  only,  although  by  far  the  most 
excusable  authority  who,  standing  bare-headed  before  his  pyram- 
idal tomb  in  the  church-yard,  assured  me  with  the  most  honest 
conviction,  that  Waller  was  the  earliest  and  finest  versifier  in  the 
language. 

Herrick  is  one  of  the  many  whose  lyrics  might  be  called  into 
court  to  overturn  this  verdict.  Originally  bred  to  the  bar,  he  took 
orders  at  a  comparatively  late  period,  and  obtained  a  living  in 
Devonshire,  from  which  he  fled  during  the  strict  rule  of  the  Lord 
Protector,  concealing  himself  under  a  lay  habit  in  London,  and 


A    LITE  EAR  Y     LIFE.  143 

returning  to  his  parsonage  with  the  return  of  the  monarch,  whose 
birth  had  formed  the  subject  of  one  of  his  earliest  pastorals. 

More  than  any  eminent  writer  of  that  day,  Herrick's  collection 
requires  careful  sifting ;  but  there  is  so  much  fancy,  so  much 
delicacy,  so  much  grace,  that  a  good  selection  would  well  repay 
the  publisher.  Bits  there  are  that  are  exquisite  :  as  when  in  enu- 
merating the  cates  composing  "  Oberon's  Feast,"  in  his  "  Fairy- 
land," he  mcludes,  among  a  strange  farrago  of  unimaginable 
dishes, 

"  The  broke  heart  of  a  nightingale 
O'ercome  in  music." 

Some  of  his  pieces,  too,  contain  curious  illustrations  of  the 
customs,  manners,  and  prejudices  of  our  ancestors.  I  shall  quote 
one  or  two  from  the  division  of  the  Hesperides,  that  he  calls 
"  charms  and  ceremonies,"  beginnmg  with  the  motto  : 

DIVINATION  BY  A  DAFFODIL. 

When  a  daffodil  I  see, 
Hanging  down  his  head  toward  me. 
Guess  I  may  what  I  may  be: 
First,  I  shall  decline  my  head, 
Secondly,  I  shall  be  dead ; 
Lastly,  safely  buried. 

The  adorning  the  houses  with  evergreens  seems  then  to  have 
been  as  common  as  our  own  habit  of  decking  them  with  flowers. 

CEREMONIES  FOR  CANDLEMAS  EVE. 

Down  with  rosemary  and  bays, 

Down  with  the  mistletoe, 
Instead  of  holly  now  upraise 

The  greener  box  for  show. 

The  holly  hitherto  did  sway ; 

Let  box  now  domineer. 
Until  the  dancing  Easter  day 

Or  Easter's  Eve  appear. 

Then  youthful  box,  which  now  has  grace 

Your  houses  to  renew, 
Grown  old,  surrender  must  his  place 

Unto  the  crisped  yew. 


144  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

When  ymv  is  out,  then  birch  comes  in 

And  many  flowers  beside, 
Both  of  a  fresh  and  fragrant  kia 

To  honor  Whitsuntide. 

Green  rushes  then  and  sweetest  bents. 

With  cooler  oaken  boughs. 
Come  in  for  comely  ornaments 
To  re-adorn  the  house. 
Thus  times  do  shift ;  each  thing  his  turn  does  hold, 
New  things  succeed  as  former  things  grow  old. 

THE   BELLMAN. 

From  noise  of  scare-fires  rest  ye  free, 
From  murders  Benedicite ; 
From  all  mischances  that  may  fright 
Tour  pleasing  slumbers  in  the  night, 
Mercy  secure  je  all,  and  keep 
The  goblin  from  ye  while  ye  sleep. 
Past  one  o'clock,  and  almost  two, 
My  masters  all,  good  day  to  you  ! 

The  description  of  a  steer  in  one  of  his  "  Bucolics"  is  graphic  and 
life-like.     The  herdswoman  is  lamenting  the  loss  of  her  favorite. 

I  have  lost  my  lovely  steer, 
That  to  me  was  far  more  dear 
Than  these  kine  that  I  milk  here; 
Broad  of  forehead,  large  of  eye. 
Party-colored  like  a  pie, 
Smooth  in  each  limb  as  a  die ; 
Clear  of  hoof,  and  clear  of  horn, 
Sharply  pointed  as  a  thorn  ; 
With  a  neck  by  yoke  unworn, 
From  the  which  hung  down  by  strings. 
Balls  of  cowslip,  daisy  rings 
Interlaced  by  ribbonings. 
Taultless  every  way  for  shape. 
Not  a  straw  could  him  escape, 
Ever  gamesome  as  an  ape. 
But  yet  harmless  as  a  sheep. 
Pardou,  Lacon,  if  I  weep. 


But  his  real  delight  was  among  flowers  and  bees,  and  nymphs 
and  cupids  ;  and  certainly  these  graceful  subjects  were  never 
handled  more  gracefully. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  145 


THE   CAPTIVE   BEE. 

As  Julia  once  a  slumbering  lay, 

It  chanced  a  bee  did  fly  that  way, 

After  a  dew  or  dew-like  shower, 

To  tipple  freely  in  a  flower. 

For  some  rich  flower  he  took  the  lip 

Of  Julia  and  began  to  sip ; 

But  when  he  felt  he  sucked  from  thence 

Honey,  and  in  the  quintessence. 

He  drank  so  much  he  scarce  could  stir, 

So  Julia  took  the  pilferer. 

And  thus  surprised,  as  fllchers  use, 

He  thus  began  himself  to  excuse : 

"  Sweet  lady-flower  !   I  never  brought 

Hither  the  least  one  thieving  thought; 

But,  taking  those  rose-lips  of  yours 

For  some  fresh  fragrant  luscious  flowers, 

I  thought  I  there  might  take  a  taste 

Where  so  much  sjrup  ran  at  waste. 

Besides,  know  this,  I  never  sting 

The  flower  that  gives  me  nourishing; 

But  with  a  kiss  or  thanks  do  pay 

For  honey  that  I  bear  away." 

This  said,  he  laid  his  little  scrip 

Of  honey  'fore  her  ladyship ; 

And  told  her,  as  some  tears  did  fall, 

That  that  he  took,  and  that  was  all. 

At  which  she  smiled,  and  bade  him  go 

And  take  his  bag ;   but  thus  much  know, 

"When  next  he  came  a  pilfering  so. 

He  should  from  her  full  lips  derive 

Honey  enough  to  fill  his  hive. 

THE  BAG  OF   THE   BEE. 

About  the  sweet  bag  of  a  bee 

Two  cupids  fell  at  odds; 
And  whose  the  pretty  prize  should  be. 

They  vowed  to  ask  the  gods. 

Which,  Venus  hearing,  thither  came, 
And  for  their  boldness  stripped  them ; 

And  taking  thence  from  each  his  flame, 
With  rods  of  myrtle  whipped  them. 

Which  done,  to  still  their  wanton  cries 
When  quiet  grown  she'd  seen  thorn. 

She  kissed  and  wiped  their  dove-like  eyes, 
And  gave  thn  bag  between  them. 

a 


146  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 


TO   THE  WILLOW-TREE. 

Thou  art  to  all  lost  love  the  best 

The  only  true  plant  found, 
Wherewith  young  men  and  maids,  distrest 

And  left  of  love,  are  crowned. 

When  once  the  lover's  rose  is  dead 

Or  laid  aside  forlorn, 
Then  willow  garlands  'bout  the  head, 

Bedewed  with  tears  are  worn. 

When  with  neglect  the  lover's  bane 

Poor  maids  rewarded  be 
For  their  love  lost ;  their  only  gain 

Is  but  a  wreath  from  thee. 

And  underneath  thy  cooling  shade, 

When  weary  of  the  light. 
The  love-spent  youth  and  love-sick  maid 

Come  to  weep  out  the  night. 


THE  FUNERAL   RITES   OF   THE  ROSE. 

The  rose  was  sick,  and  smiling  died ; 

And  being  to  be  sanctified, 

About  the  bed  there  sighing  stood 

The  sweet  and  flowery  sisterhood. 

Some  hung  the  head,  while  some  did  bring, 

To  wash  her,  water  from  the  spring ; 

Some  laid  her  forth,  while  others  wept, 

But  all  a  solemn  fast  there  kept. 

The  holy  sisters  some  among 

The  sacred  dirge  and  trental  sung; 

But  ah !  what  sweets  smelt  everywhere 

As  heaven  had  spent  all  perfumes  there ! 

At  last,  when  prayers  for  the  dead 

And  rites  were  all  accomplished. 

They,  weeping,  spread  a  lawny  loom, 

And  closed  her  up,  as  in  a  tomb. 

SOXG. 

Gather  ye  rosebuds,  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a  flying; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day. 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  147 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  he's  a  getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

The  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

The  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 

When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer ; 
But,  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worse 

Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 

And,  while  ye  may,  go  marry ; 
For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 

You  may  forever  tarry. 

TO   MEADOWS. 

Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green, 

Ye  have  been  filled  with  flowers ; 
And  ye  the  walks  have  been. 

Where  maids  have  spent  their  hours. 

Ye  have  beheld  where  they 

With  wicker  arks  did  come; 
To  kiss  and  bear  away 

The  richer  cowslips  home. 

You've  heard  them  sweetly  sing, 

And  seen  them  in  a  round ; 
Each  virgin,  like  the  spring, 

With  honeysuckles  crowned. 

But  now  we  see  none  here. 

Whose  silvery  feet  did  tread  ; 
And,  with  disheveled  hair, 

Adorned  this  smoother  mead. 

Like  unthrifls  having  spent 

Your  stock,  and  needy  grown  ; 
You're  left  here  to  lament, 

Your  poor  estates  alone. 

TO   DAFFODILS. 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see, 

You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  sun, 

lias  not  attained  its  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 


148  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Until  the  liasting  ilaj' 

Has  run, 
But  to  the  even  song, 
And,  liaving  praj'cd  togctbor,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 

As  you  or  any  thing. 
We  die, 

As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 
Away, 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain. 
Or,  as  the  pearls  of  morning  dew, 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

THE  NIGHT-PIECE.— TO  JULIA. 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee. 
The  shooting  stars  attend  theej 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

No  will-o'-th'-wisp  mislight  thee; 
Nor  snake,  nor  slow-worm  bite  thee ; 

But  on,  on  thy  way. 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  thee. 

Let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber. 
What  though  the  moon  doth  slumber'? 
The  stars  of  the  night, 
AVill  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

TO  BLOSSOMS. 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree. 
Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast  1 
Your  date  is  not  so  past 

But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile. 
To  blush  and  gently  smile. 
And  go  at  last. 

What  were  ye  bom  to  be 
An  hour  or  halfs  delight. 
And  so  to  bid  good-night  1 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  149 

'Twas  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth, 

Merely  to  show  your  worth, 

And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 

May  read  how  soon  things  have 

Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave ; 
And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride, 

Like  you,  awhile  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 

The  want  in  these  graceful  and  delicate  lyrics  is  thew  and 
sinew.  And  yet  they  are  what  they  pretend  to  be — airy  petals  of 
the  cherry-blossom,  hinting  of  fruit,  bees  fluttering  and  musical, 
giving  token  of  honey. 

The  Muse  fares  ill  in  civil  contentions.  As  Herrick  fled  before 
the  Roundheads,  so  was  George  Wither  oppressed  by  the  Cavaliers. 
The  following  noble  praise  of  poetry  was  written  in  a  prison  ;  in 
a  prison  the  poor  poet  passed  many  of  his  latter  years,  and  it  is 
still  a  question  whether  he  actually  died  in  confinement,  or  per- 
ished of  want  and  misery  after  his  release. 

But,  alas !  my  muse  is  slow ; 

For  thy  pace  she  flags  too  low. 

But  though  for  her  sake  I'm  curst. 

Though  my  best  hopes  I  have  lost, 

And  knew  she  would  make  my  trouble, 

Ten  times  more  than  ten  times  double ; 

I  would  love  and  keep  her  too 

Spite  of  all  the  world  could  do. 

For  though  banished  from  my  flocks. 

And  confined  within  these  rocks, 

Here  I  waste  away  the  light, 

And  consume  the  sullen  night ; 

She  doth  for  my  comfort  stay, 

And  keeps  many  cares  away. 

Though  I  miss  the  flowery  fields, 

And  those  sweets  the  spring-tide  yields ; 

Though  I  may  not  sec  those  groves. 

Where  the  shepherds  chant  their  loves, 

And  the  lasses  more  excel 

Than  the  sweet-voiced  Philomel ; 

Though  of  all  those  pleasures  past 

Notliing  now  remains  at  last, 

But  remembrance,  j)oor  relief 

That  more  makes  than  mends  my  grief; 


150  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 

She's  my  niiiid's  ciimi).iiiiuii  still 

Miuigro  Envys  evil  will : 

Whence  she  should  he  driven  too, 

Wer't  in  mortal's  power  to  do. 

She  doth  tell  me  where  to  horrow 

Comfort  in  the  midst  of  sorrow ; 

Makes  the  desolatest  place 

In  her  presence  be  a  grace ; 

And  the  blackest  discontents 

Be  her  fairest  ornaments. 

In  my  former  days  of  bliss 

Iter  divine  skill  taught  mc  this, 

That  from  every  thing  I  saw 

I  could  some  invention  draw ; 

And  raise  Pleasure  to  her  height 

Through  the  meanest  object's  sight : 

By  the  murmur  of  a  spring, 

Or  the  least  bough's  rustling ; 

By  a  daisy,  whose  leaves  spread 

Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed; 

On  a  shady  bush  or  tree 

She  could  more  infuse  in  me 

Than  all  Nature's  beauties  can 

In  some  other  wiser  man. 

By  her  help  I  also  now 

Make  this  churlish  place  allow 

Some  things,  that  may  sweeten  gladness 

In  the  very  gall  of  sadness: 

The  dull  loneness,  the  black  shade 

That  these  hanging  vaults  have  made, 

The  strange  music  of  the  waves 

Beating  on  these  hollow  caves, 

This  black  den,  which  rocks  emboss 

Overgrown  with  eldest  moss ; 

The  rude  portals  that  give  light 

More  to  terror  than  delight ; 

This  my  chamber  of  neglect 

Walled  about  with  disrespect : 

From  all  these,  and  this  dull  air 

A  fit  object  for  despair, 

She  hath  brought  me  by  her  might 

To  draw  comfort  and  delight. 

Therefore,  thou  best  earthly  bliss, 
I  will  cherish  thee  for  this  ! 
Poetry,  thou  sweet'st  content 
That  e'er  Heaven  to  mortals  lent; 
Though  they  as  a  trifle  leave  thee 
Whose  dull  thoughts  can  not  conceive  thee; 


A    LITERAKY     LIFE,  151 

Though  thou  be  to  them  a  scorn 

That  for  naught  but  earth  are  born ; 

Let  my  hfe  no  longer  be 

Than  I  am  in  love  with  thee  ! 

Thougli  our  wise  ones  call  it  madness, 

Let  me  never  taste  of  gladness 

If  I  love  not  thy  maddest  fits 

Above  all  their  greatest  wits ! 

And  though  some,  too  seeming  holy, 

Do  account  thy  raptures  folly. 

Thou  dost  teach  me  to  contemn 

What  makes  knaves  and  fools  of  them ! 

"  The  praises  of  poetry  have  been  often  sung  in  ancient  and 
modern  times  ;  strange  powers  have  been  ascribed  to  it  of  influ- 
ence over  animate  and  inanimate  auditors  ;  its  force  over  fasci- 
nated crowds  has  been  acknowledged  ;  but  before  Wither  no  one 
had  celebrated  its  power  at  hmne  ;  the  wealth  and  the  strength 
which  this  divine  gift  confers  upon  its  possessor."  This  fine  crit- 
icism, worthy  of  the  poetry  wdiich  it  celebrates,  is  by  Charles 
Lamb. 


152  liEOOL  LECTIONS    OF 


xm. 

FEMALE    POETS. 

JOANNA    BAILLIE* CATHERINE    FANSHAWE. 

Beloved,  admired,  appreciated  by  the  best  spirits  of  her  time, 
it  is  with  no  little  triumph  that  I,  who  plead  guilty  to  some  of 
that  esprit  de  corps,  which  may  be  translated  into  "  pride  of  sex," 
write  the  name  of  our  great  female  dramatist — of  the  first  woman 
who  won  high  and  undisputed  honors  in  the  highest  class  of  Eng- 
lish poetry.  The  pleasure  of  rendering  her  a  faint  and  imperfect 
justice  is  all  the  greater  that  I  have  the  honor  of  claiming 
acquaintance  with  this  most  gifted  person,  and  that  she  is,  in  her 
domestic  relations,  the  very  pattern  of  what  a  literary  lady  should 
be — quiet,  unpretending,  generous,  kind,  admirable  in  her  writings, 
excellent  in  her  life. 

And  yet  of  Mrs.  Joanna  Baillie,  the  praised  of  Scott,  and  of  all 
whose  praise  is  best  worth  having  for  half  a  century,  what  can  I 
say,  but  that  many  an  age  to  come  will  echo  back  their  applause  I 

Her  tragedies  have  a  boldness  and  grasp  of  mind,  a  firmness 
of  hand,  and  a  resonance  of  cadence,  that  scarcely  seem  within 
the  reach  of  a  female  writer ;  while  the  tenderness  and  sweet- 
ness of  her  heroines — the  grace  of  the  love-scenes — and  the 
trembling  outgushings  of  sensibility,  as  in  Orra,  for  instance,  in 
the  fine  tragedy  on  Fear — would  seem  exclusively  feminine,  if 
we   did    not   know   that    a    true    dramatist — as   Shakspeare   or 

*  Since  writing  this  paper,  this  gifted  authoress  and  admirable  woman 
has  passed  from  this  world  to  the  higher  and  happier  state  which  was  ever 
in  her  thoughts.  A  letter  from  her  to  a  mutual  friend,  written  a  very  few 
daj'S  before  her  death,  expresses  her  satisfaction  in  having  received  the 
sacrament  with  her  sister  the  Sunday  previous.  In  this  letter,  for  the  first 
time  during  a  long  correspondence,  she  breaks  off  somewhat  suddenly,  com- 
plaining of  bodily  fatigue,  although  no  one  then  thought  her  ill. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  153 

Fletcher — has  the  wonderful  power  of  throwing  himself,  mind 
and  body,  into  the  character  that  he  portrays.  That  Mrs.  Joanna 
is  a  true  dramatist,  as  well  as  a  great  poet,  I,  for  one,  can  never 
doubt,  although  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  say  that  her  plays  do 
not  act. 

It  must  be  above  fifty  years  ago  that  I,  then  a  girl  of  thirteen, 
in  company  with  my  old  and  dear  friend,  Mr.  Harness,  the 
bosom  friend  of  Thomas  Hope,  the  friend  and  correspondent  of 
Lord  Byron  (and,  be  it  observed,  of  all  his  correspondents,  the  one 
who  seems  to  have  impressed  the  daring  poet  with  the  most  sin- 
cere respect),  then  a  boy  considerably  younger  than  myself,  wit- 
nessed the  representation  of  "  De  Montfort,"  by  John  Kemble  and 
Mrs.  Siddons.  Forty  years  after,  we  had  the  pleasure  of  talking 
over  that  representation  with  the  authoress,  in  Lady  Dacre's 
drawing-room,  a  place  where  poets  "  most  do  congregate,"  and 
we  both  agreed  that  the  impression  which  the  performance  had 
made  upon  us  had  remained  indelible.  Now,  the  qualities  in  an 
acted  play  that  fixed  themselves  upon  the  minds  of  children  so 
young,  must  have  been  purely  dramatic.  Purely  dramatic,  too, 
are  many  of  the  finer  traits  that  strike  us  in  reading,  as,  when 
De  Mo?itfort,  with  his  ear  quickened  by  hatred,  announces  the 
approach  of  Rezenvelt,  and  Freberg  exclaims  : 

"  How  quick  an  ear  thou  hast  for  distant  sound ! 
I  hear  him  not — " 

and  many  others  scattered  through  the  tragedies. 

I  concede,  however,  very  willingly,  that  Mrs.  Joanna  is  a  most 
charming  lyrical  poetess  ;  as  witness  the  beautiful  Morning  Song 
in  the  "  Beacon,"  which  breathes  the  very  spirit  of  hope. 

Up !  quit  thy  bower ;   late  wears  the  hour ; 
Long  have  the  rooks  cawed  round  thy  tower ; 
On  flower  and  tree  loud  hums  the  bee; 
The  wilding  kid  sports  merrily : 
A  day  so  bright,  so  fresh,  so  clear, 
Showeth  when  good  fortune's  near. 

Up !   lady  fair,  and  braid  thy  hair, 

And  bathe  thee  in  the  breezy  air ; 

The  rolling  stream  that  soothed  thy  dream 

Is  dancing  in  the  sunny  beam ; 

And  hours  so  sweet,  so  bright,  so  gay, 

Will  waft  good  fortune  on  its  way. 


154  UEOO  Ll.KCTlUNS    OF 

Up !    time  will  ti-ll ;    the  friar's  bell 
Its  service  sound  liiith  chimed  well ; 
The  aged  crone  keeps  house  alone, 
And  reapers  to  the  tields  are  gone ; 
The  active  day,  so  fair  and  bright, 
Mu)'  bring  good  fortune  ere  the  night. 

There  is  a  remarkable  freedom  in  the  diction  and  versification 
of  the  following  beautiful  t^ong  ;  the  more  remarkable  that  it  is 
written  for  a  AVclsh  air. 

THE  BLACK  COCK. 

Good  morrow  to  thy  sable  beak, 
And  glossy  plumage,  dark  and  sleek, 
Thy  crimson  moon  and  azure  ej'e, 
Cock  of  the  heath  so  wildly  shy ! 
I  see  thee  slowly  cowering,  through 
That  wiry  web  of  silver  dew, 
That  twinkles  in  the  morning  air, 
Like  casement  of  my  lady  fair. 

A  maid  there  is  in  yonder  tower. 
Who,  peeping  from  her  early  bower. 
Half  shows,  like  thee,  with  simple  wile 
Her  braided  hair  and  morning  smile. 
The  rarest  things,  with  wayward  will, 
Beneath  the  covert  hide  them  still ; 
The  rarest  things  to  light  of  day 
Look  shortly  forth  and  break  away. 

One  fleeting  moment  of  delight 

I  warmed  me  in  her  cheering  sight, 

And  short,  I  ween,  the  time  will  be 

That  I  shall  parley  hold  with  thee. 

Through  Snowdon's  mist  red  beams  the  day ; 

The  climbing  herd-boy  chants  his  lay ; 

The  gnat-flies  dance  their  sunny  ring; 

Thou  art  already  on  the  wing. 

This  song  is  distinguished  by  the  same  delicious  freedom,  and 
was  also  written  to  music.  Truly,  the  Muse  can  dance  in 
fetters. 

0  welcome  bat  and  owlet  gray. 
Thus  winging  low  your  airy  way ! 
And  welcome  moth  and  drowsy  fly, 
That  to  mine  ear  come  humming  by ! 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  155 

Aud  welcome  shadows  dim  and  deep, 
And  stars  that  through  the  pale  sky  peep ; 
0  welcome  all !   to  me  ye  say 
My  woodland  love  is  on  her  way. 

Upon  the  soft  wind  floats  her  hair, 
Her  breath  is  on  the  dewy  air ; 
Her  steps  are  in  the  whispered  sound 
That  steals  along  the  stilly  ground. 
0  dawn  of  day,  in  rosy  bower. 
What  art  thou  to  this  witching  hourl 
0  noon  of  day,  in  .sunshine  bright. 
What  art  thou  to  this  fall  of  night '? 

I  can  not  resist  indulging  myself  by  transcribing"  the  following 
Scottish  ballad,  a  delightful  specimen  of  quaint  richness  and 
quiet  humor. 

FY,  LET   US  A'  TO  THE   WEDDING, 
(il/i  A'uld  Song  New  Buskit.) 

Fy,  let  us  a'  to  the  wedding, 

For  they  will  be  lilting  there ; 
For  Jock's  to  be  married  to  Maggie, 

The  lass  wi'  the  gowdcn  hair. 

And  there  will  be  jibing  and  jeering. 

And  glancing  of  bonny  dark  een. 
Loud  laughing,  and  smooth-gabbit  speering 

0'  questions  baith  pawky  and  keen. 

And  there  will  be  Bessy,  the  beauty, 

Wha  raises  her  cockup  sae  hie, 
And  giggles  at  preachings  and  duty, — 

Guid  grant  that  she  gang  na'  ajee ! 

And  there  will  be  auld  Qeordie  Tanner, 
Wiia  coft  a  young  wife  wi'  his  gowd ; 

She'll  flaunt  wi'  a  silk  gown  upon  her. 
But  wow !   he  looks  dowie  and  cow'd. 

And  brown  Tibbie  Fowler,  the  heiress, 

Will  perk  at  the  tap  o'  the  ha'. 
Encircled  wi'  suitors,  wha's  care  is 

To  catch  up  her  gloves  when  they  fa'. 

Repeat  a'  her  jokes  as  they're  clcckit, 
And  haver  and  glower  in  her  face, 


156  HECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

Wtiilo  t(H-lu'rli-ss  mays  are  ncgleckit, — 
A  crying  and  scandalous  case. 

And  Maysie,  wha's  clavering  aunty 
AVad  match  licr  wi'  Lowric  the  laird, 

And  learns  the  young  fule  to  be  vaunty, 
But  neither  to  spin  nor  to  caird. 

And  Andrew,  wha's  granny  is  yearning 
To  see  him  a  clerical  blade, 

Was  sent  to  the  college  for  learning. 
And  cam'  back  a  coof,  as  he  gaed. 

And  there  will  be  auld  Widow  Martin, 
That  ca's  hersel  thirty  and  twa ; 

And  tliraw-gabbit  Madge,  wha  for  certain 
Was  jilted  by  Hab  o'  the  Shaw. 

And  Elspy,  the  scwster  sac  genty, 
A  pattern  o'  bavins  and  sense. 

Will  straik  on  her  mittens  sae  genty. 
And  crack  wi'  Mess  John  i'  the  spence. 

And  Angus,  the  seer  o'  fairlies, 

That  sits  on  the  stane  at  his  door, 

And  tells  about  bogles,  and  mair  lies 
Than  tongue  ever  uttered  before. 

And  there  will  be  Bauldie,  the  boaster, 
Sae  ready  wi'  hands  and  wi'  tongue  ; 

Proud  Paty  and  silly  Sam  Foster, 
Wha  quarrel  wi'  auld  and  wi'  young. 

And  Hugh,  the  to^vn-writer,  I'm  thinking, 
That  trades  in  his  lawyerly  skill, 

Will  egg  on  the  fighting  and  drinking, 
To  bring  after  grist  to  his  mill. 

And  Maggie — ha !   ha  !   will  be^ivil,  C 
And  let  the  wee  bridle  a-bee ; 

A  vilipend  tongue  is  the  devil. 
And  ne'er  was  encouraged  by  me. 

Then,  fy,  let  us  a'  to  the  wedding. 
For  they  will  be  lilting  there, 

Frae  mony  a  far-distant  ha'ding. 
The  fun  and  the  feasting  to  share. 

For  they  will  get  sheep's-head  and  haggis, 
And  browst  o'  the  barley-mow ; 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  157 

E'en  he  that  comes  latest  and  lag  is 
May  feast  upon  dainties  enow. 

Veal  florentines  in  the  o'en  baken, 

Weel  plenished  wi'  raisins  and  fat, 
Beef,  mutton,  and  chuckles,  a'  taken 

Het  reeking  ft-ae  spit  or  frae  pat. 

And  glasses  (I  trow  'tis  na'  said  ill). 
To  drink  the  young  couple  good  luck, 

Weel  filled  wi'  a  braw  beechen  ladle, 
Frae  punch-bowl  as  big  as  Dumbuck. 

And  then  will  come  dancing  and  daffing, 

And  reelin'  and  crossing'  o'  ban's, 
Till  even  auld  Luckie  is  laughing. 

As  back  by  the  aumry  she  stan's. 

Sic  bobbing,  and  flinging,  and  whirling, 

While  fiddlers  are  making  their  din, 
And  pipers  are  droning  and  skirling, 

As  loud  as  the  roar  of  the  linn. 

Then,  fy,  let  us  a'  to  the  wedding, 

For  they  will  be  lilting  there. 
For  Jock's  to  be  married  to  Maggie, 

The  lass  wi'  the  gowden  hair. 

CATHERINE  FANSHAWE. 

It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  one  of  the  happiest  positions — 
let  me  say  the  very  happiest  position,  that  a  woman  of  great  talent 
can  occupy  in  our  high  civilization,  is  that  of  living  a  heloved 
and  distinguished  member  of  the  best  literary  society  ;  enjoying, 
listening,  admiring  ;  repaying  all  that  she  receives  by  a  keen  and 
willing  sympathy  ;  cultivating  to  perfection  the  social  faculty  ; 
but  abstaining  from  the  wider  field  of  authorship,  even  while  she 
throws  out  here  and  there  such  choice  and  chosen  bits  as  prove 
that  nothing  but  disinclination  to  enter  the  arena  debars  her  from 
winning  the  prize.  How  much  better  to  belong  to  that  portion 
of  the  audience  which  gives  fame  to  the  actor — that  class  of 
readers  to  whom  the  writer  looks  for  reputation — than  to  figure 
as  actor  or  as  author  oneself  I 

Besides  the  infinite  wisdom  of  resting  in  such  a  position,  seated 
midway  on  the  hill  of  fame,  enjoying  all  the  beauties  of  the  pros- 


158  IIECOLLECTIONS    OF 

pcct,  and  sliielded  from  the  storms  of  the  summit,  and  the  perils 
of  the  steep  and  rocky  way,  besides  its  security,  its  happiness,  and 
its  wisdom,  such  a  clioice  has  always  appeared  to  me  indicative 
of  the  very  finest  qualities,  mental  and  moral  ; — feminine,  modest, 
generous,  pure.  I  look  up  to  a  woman,  who,  with  powers  to 
command  the  most  brilliant  literary  success,  contents  herself  with 
a  warm  and  unenvying  sympathy  in  the  success  of  others,  with  a 
mixture  of  reverence  and  admiration  greater  than  I  can  accord  to 
mere  genius,  however  high.  Rare  are  such  women  beyond  all 
rareness  :  but  that  they  do  exist,  my  friend  Miss  Goldsmid  is  a 
living  instance ;  and  that  there  was  one  such  most  eminent  in 
the  last  generation,  was  felt  by  all  who  had  the  happiness  and 
the  privilege  of  knowing  Catherine  Fanshawe. 

The  name  of  this  gifted  woman  is  connected  with  the  whole 
of  that  glorious  society  which  formed  the  pride  and  ornament  of 
London  during  the  early  part  of  the  present  century — the  society, 
which,  after  a  short  interregnum,  succeeded  the  illustrious  circle 
that  had  formed  the  great  literary  club  in  the  days  of  Johnson, 
Burke,  Goldsmith,  and  Reynolds.  Even  with  these  names  their 
successors  may  well  bear  a  comparison.  To  mention  them  is 
enough  ;  Scott,  Southey,  Rogers,  Moore,  Joanna  Baillie,  Maria 
Edgeworth,  Madame  d'Arblay,  Wordsworth,  Crabbe,  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons,  Sotheby,  Sharpe,  W.  R.  Spencer,  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence, 
Sir  James  Mackintosh,  Lord  Erskine,  Lord  Holland,  William 
Harness,  Sydney  Smith,  Campbell,  Canning,  Thomas  Hope  : — 
there  is  no  telling  where  to  stop.  And  among  this  society,  at  once 
60  dazzling  and  so  charming,  there  was  no  name  more  dis- 
tinguished for  brilliant  and  various  talent,  or  for  every  attractive 
quality,  than  that  of  Catherine  Fanshawe. 

Co-heiress  with  two  other  daughters  of  an  ancient  gentleman's 
family,  the  three  lived  together  in  that  happy  sisterly  union 
peculiar  to  our  country.  Besides  her  remarkable  talent  for  grace- 
ful and  polished  pleasantry,  whether  in  prose  or  in  verse.  Miss 
Catherine  Fanshawe  was  admirable  as  a  letter- writer,  as  a  reader 
of  Shakspeare,  and  as  a  designer  in  almost  every  style.  One  of 
the  few  survivors  of  that  brilliant  society,  himself  a  first-rate 
judge  of  art,  says  of  her — "  Her  drawings  and  etchings  are  those 
of  an  artist  ;  and  so  different  are  they  in  kind,  that  I  have  seen  a 
large  drawing,  called  '  The  Genius  of  the  Storm,'  which  if  I  were 
not  afraid  of  my  own  prepossessions,  I  should  say  is  sublime; 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  159 

while  there  are  groups  of  children  by  her  which  no  one  has  ever 
surpassed  for  their  beauty,  simplicity  and  truth  ;  and  I  have  hang- 
ing up  over  my  study  fireplace  a  long  aqua-tinted  etching  of  hers, 
called  'An  After-dinner  Conversation,'  which  is  as  comical  as 
any  thing  by  Banbury,  and  a  great  deal  better  than  any  thing 
of  his,  because  while  quite  as  humorous  it  is  less  caricatured." 

Of  course,  the  secret  of  this  variety  and  of  this  excellence,  lay 
in  her  power  and  her  habit  of  observation.  "  She  saw  every 
thing,"  says  that  excellent  friend  of  hers  and  of  mine  to  whom  I 
owe  the  account  of  her  drawings  ;  "  she  saw  every  thing — tlie 
xvliolc  of  it.,'"  and  was  only  restrained  from  turning  it  into  the 
most  finished  comedy  by  those  feelings  of  a  gentlewoman  and  a 
Christian  (how  nearly  those  words  are  synonymous  I)  which  pre- 
vented her  from  running  the  risk  of  giving  a  moment's  pain  to 
any  human  being.  I  have  a  theory  that  the  very  highest  talent 
commonly  keeps  very  good  company  ;  and  no  better  illustration 
of  its  truth  could  be  found  than  this  admirable  person,  whose 
Christian  graces  were  quite  on  a  par  with  her  mental  endowments. 

Far  too  few  of  her  poems  have  been  published.  Those  which 
I  subjoin,  have  been  taken  from  a  volume  now  very  scarce,  con- 
sisting of  miscellaneous  pieces,  by  many  authors,  edited  by  Mrs. 
Joanna  Baillie,  for  the  benefit  of  a  friend.  The  volume  was  pub- 
lished by  subscription,  and  is  remarkable  not  only  for  these  charm- 
ing pieces  of  pleasantry,  and  for  some  of  the  best  poems  of  the 
editor,  but  as  containing  Sir  Walter  Scott's  most  successful  dra- 
matic effort,  "Mac  Duff's  Cross,"  and  Mr.  Merivale's  "Devon's 
Poly  Olbion,"  and  also  for  having  introduced  to  the  world  Sou- 
tlu-y's  whimsical  and  characteristic  experiment  upon  rhyme  and 
language,  called  "The  Cataract  of  Lodore." 

I  plunge  at  once  into  one  of  the  pleasantest  of  Miss  Catherine 
Fanshawe's  poems,  "  The  Abrogation  of  the  Birth-night  Ball,  by 
a  Beau  of  the  Last  Century."  The  description  of  the  minuet  is 
admirable. 

Forever  at  his  lordly  call 
Uprose  the  sptinglcd  night ! 
Leading  in  gorgeous  .si)lt;ii(lor  bright 

The  minuet  and  the  ball. 
And  balls  each  frolic  hour  may  bring 
That  revels  through  th<!  mad<U;ning  spring, 
Shaking  with  hurried  step  the  painted  floor, 

But  minuets  are  no  more ! 


160  liK  COL  LECTIONS    OF 

No  more  tho  wcll-taiight  feet  sliall  tread 
Tlic  figure  of  the  mazy  zed  ; 
The  beau  of  other  times  shall  mourn 
As  gone  and  never  to  return, 
The  graceful  bow,  the  courtesy  low, 
The  floating  forms  that  undulating  glide, 
(Like  anchor'd  vessels  on  the  swelling  tide,) 
That  rise  and  sink  alternate  as  they  go, 
Now  bent  the  knee,  now  hfted  on  the  toe ; 
The  sidelong  step  that  works  its  even  way, 
The  slow  pas-grave  and  slower  balance  ; 
Still  with  fixed  gaze  he  eyes  the  imagined  fair, 
And  turns  tho  corner  with  an  easy  air. 
Not  so  his  partner.    From  her  tangled  train 
To  free  her  captive  foot  she  strives  in  vain; 
Her  tangled  train  the  struggling  captive  holds 
(Like  great  Atrides)  in  its  fatal  folds ; 
The  laws  of  gallantry  his  aid  demand. 
The  laws  of  etiquette  withhold  his  hand. 
Such  pains,  such  pleasures,  now  alike  are  o'er, 
And  beaus  and  etiquette  shall  soon  exist  no  more. 
At  their  speed  behold  advancing 
Modern  men  and  women  dancing  ! 
Step  and  dress  alike  express, 
Above,  below,  from  heel  to  toe, 
Male  and  female  awkwardness. 
Without  a  hoop,  without  a  ruffle, 
One  eternal  jig  and  shuffle. 
Where's  the  air,  and  where's  the  gait  ? 
Where's  the  feather  in  the  hat  1 
Where  the  frizzed  toupee  1  and  where, 
Oh!  Where's  the  powder  for  the  hair'J 
****** 
Mark  the  pair  whom  favoring  fortune 

At  the  envied  top  shall  place; 
Humbly  they  the  next  importune 
To  vouchsafe  a  little  space ; 

Not  the  graceful  arm  to  wave  in, 

Or  the  silken  robe  expand ; 
All  superfluous  action  saving. 

Idly  drops  the  lifeless  hand. 

Her  downcast  eye  the  modest  beauty 

Sends  as  doubtful  of  tlieir  skill, 
To  see  if  feet  perform  their  duty. 

And  their  endless  task  fulfill. 
Footing,  footing,  footing,  footing, 

Footing,  footing,  footing  still. 


A    LITERAKY    LIFE.  161 

While  the  rest,  in  hedgerow  state, 

All  insensible  to  sound, 
With  more  than  human  patience  wait, 

Like  trees  fast  rooted  in  the  ground. 

Not  such  as  once,  with  sprightly  motion. 

To  distant  music  stirred  their  stumps, 
And  tripped  from  Pelion  to  the  ocean. 

Performing  avenues  and  clumps ; 

What  time  old  Jason's  ship,  the  Argo, 

Orpheus  fiddling  at  the  helm, 
From  Colchis  bore  her  golden  cargo, 

Dancing  o'er  the  azure  realm. 

But  why  recur  to  ancient  story, 

Or  balls  of  modern  date  1 

Be  mine  to  trace  the  minuet's  fate. 
And  mourn  its  fallen  glory. 

To  ask  who  rang  the  passing  bell  1 
If  Vestris  ran  the  solemn  dirge  to  hear  1 
Genius  of  Valotiy,  didst  thou  hover  near  7 

Shade  of  Lepicq  !  and  spirit  of  Gondel ! 

Now  their  angry  forms  arise. 

Where  wreaths  of  smoke  involve  the  skies, 

Above  St.  James's  steeple. 
I  heard  them  curse  our  heavy  heel, 
The  Irish  step,  the  Highland  reel, 

And  all  the  United  People. 
To  the  dense  air  the  curse  adhesive  clung, 
Repeated  since  by  many  a  modish  tongue 
In  words  that  may  be  said,  but  never  shall  be  sung.* 

What  cause  untimely  urged  the  mirmct's  fate  1 
Did  war  subvert  the  manners  of  the  state  1 
Did  savage  nations  give  the  barbarous  law. 
The  Gaul  Cisalpine  or  the  Gono(iuaw  1 
Its  fall  was  destined  to  a  peaceful  land, 
A  sportive  pencil  and  a  courtly  hand. 
They  left  a  name  that  time  itself  might  spare 
To  grinding  organs,  and  the  dancing  bear. 

My  next  extract  is  a  restoration.      I  have  it  myself  printed  in 
two  editions  of  Lord  Byron's  works  ;  the  one  English,  the  other 

*  "  Go  to  the  devil  and  shake  yourself."     The  tune  of  a  favorite  country- 
dance. 


1G2  KK  COL  LECTIONS    OF 

American.  The  frioml  already  quoted  says  of  it, — "The  letter 
II  (I  mean  the  Enigma  so  called,  ascribed  to  Lord  Byron)  she 
wrote  at  the  Deepdenc.  I  well  remember  her  bringing  it  down, 
at  breakfast  and  reading  it  to  us,  and  my  impression  is,  that  she 
had  then  just  composed  it." 

A  RIDDLE. 

'Twas  in  heaven  pronounced,  and  'twas  muttered  in  hell. 

And  echo  caught  faintly  the  sound  as  it  fell ; 

On  the  confines  of  earth  'twas  permitted  to  rest, 

And  the  depths  of  the  ocean  its  presence  confessed ; 

'Twill  be  found  in  the  sphere  when  'tis  riven  asunder, 

Be  seen  in  the  lightning  and  heard  in  the  thunder. 

'Twas  allotted  to  man  with  his  earliest  breath. 

Attends  him  at  birth,  and  awaits  him  in  death, 

Presides  o'er  his  happiness,  honor,  and  health. 

Is  the  prop  of  his  house,  and  the  end  of  his  wealth. 

In  the  heaps  of  the  miser  'tis  hoarded  with  care. 

But  is  sure  to  be  lost  on  his  prodigal  heir. 

It  begins  every  hope,  every  wish  it  must  bound, 

With  the  husbandman  toils,  and  with  monarchs  is  crown'd. 

Without  it  the  soldier,  the  seaman  may  roam,  <^ 

But  woe  to  the  wretch  who  expels  it  from  home  ! 

In  the  whispers  of  conscience  its  voice  will  be  found. 

Nor  e'en  in  the  whirlwind  of  passion  be  drown'd. 

'Twill  not  soften  the  heart ;  but  though  deaf  be  the  ear, 

It  will  make  it  acutely  and  instantly  hear. 

Yet  in  shade  let  it  rest,  like  a  delicate  flower, 

Ah !  breathe  on  it  softly— it  dies  in  an  hour. 

Now  for  another  riddle — a  charade — which  my  fair   friends 
shall  have  the  pleasure  of  discovering  for  themselves. 

Inscribed  on  many  a  learned  page. 
In  mystic  characters  and  sage. 

Long  time  my  First  ha.s  stood ; 
And  though  its  golden  age  be  past. 
In  wooden  walls  it  yet  may  last 

Till  clothed  with  flesh  and  blood. 

My  Second  is  a  glorious  prize 

For  all  who  love  their  wondering  eyes 

With  curious  sights  to  pamper; 
But  'tis  a  sight — which  should  they  meet. 
All'  improviso  in  the  street, 

Ye  gods!  how  they  would  scamper! 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  163 

My  tout's  a  sort  of  wandering  throne, 
To  woman  limited  alone, 

The  salique  law  reversing  ; 
But  while  the  imaginary  queen 
Prepares  to  act  this  novel  scene, 

Her  royal  part  rehearsing, 
O'erturning  her  presumptuous  plan, 
Up  climbs  the  old  usurper — man, 

And  she  jogs  after  as  she  can. 

It  is  not  often  that  so  trifling  a  subject  has  been  rendered  so 
graceful  and  so  pleasant  as  in  the  following  pleadings  of  two 
initials,  C  versus  K. 

EPISTLE  TO  EARL  HARCOURT, 

07i  his  wishing  her  to  spell  her  name  of  Catherine  with  a  K. 

And  can  his  antiquarian  eyes 

My  Anglo-Saxon  C  despise  1 

And  does  Lord  Harcourt,  day  by  day. 

Regret  the  extinct  initial  K  1 

And  still,  with  ardor  unabated, 

Labor  to  get  it  reinstated? 

I  know,  my  lord,  your  generous  passion 

For  every  long-exploded  fashion  ; 

And  own  the  Katharine  you  delight  in 

Looks  irresistibly  inviting, 

Appears  to  bear  the  stamp  and  mark 

Of  English  used  in  Noah's  Ark ; 

"  But  all  that  glitters  is  not  gold," 

Nor  all  things  obsolete  are  old. 

Would  you  but  take  the  pains  to  look 

In  Doctor  Johnson's  quarto  book, 

(As  I  did,  wishing  much  to  see 

The  aforesaid  letter's  pedigree,) 

Believe  me  'twould  a  tale  unfold 

Would  make  your  Norman  blood  run  cold. 

My  lord,  you'll  find  the  K's  no  better 

Than  an  interpolated  letter — 

A  wandering  Greek,  a  fianchised  alien. 

Derived  from  Cadmus  or  Deucalion, 

And,  why  or  wherefore  none  can  tell. 

Inserted  'twixt  the  I  and  L. 

The  learned  say  our  English  tongue 

On  Gothic  beams  is  built  and  hung: 

Then  why  the  solid  fabric  i)iece 

With  motley  ornaments  from  Greece  1 


164  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Ilor  letteri'd  ilospots  luul  no  bowels 
For  Nortliern  coiisoniuits  and  vowels ; 
The  Nonuan  and  the  (iroek  grammarian 
Deemed  us  and  all  our  words  barbarian, 
Till  those  hard  words,  and  harder  blows 
Had  silenced  all  our  haughty  foes, 
And  proud  they  were  to  kiss  the  sandals 
(Shoes  we  had  none)  of  Goths  and  Vandals. 
****** 

But  since  our  Saxon  line  we  trace 

Up  to  this  all-subduing  race, 

Who  from  their  "  sole  dominion"  hurled 

The  giants  of  the  ancient  world, 

Their  boasted  languages  confounding 

And  with  such  mortal  gutturals  wounding. 

That  Greek  or  Latin  fell  or  iled. 

And  soon  were  numbered  with  the  dead  ; — 

Befits  it  us,  so  much  their  betters. 

To  sjiell  our  names  with  conquered  letters  1 

And  shall  they  rise  and  prate  again. 

Like  Falstaff  from  among  the  slain  1 

A  license  quite  of  modern  date 

Which  no  long  customs  consecrate ; 

For  since  this  K,  of  doleful  sound. 

First  set  his  foot  on  British  ground, 

'Tis  not,  as  antiquaries  know, 

A  dozen  centuries  ago. 

That  darling  theme  of  English  story. 
For  learning  famed  and  martial  glory, 
Alfred,  who  quelled  the  usurping  Dane, 
And  burst  indignant  from  his  chain ; 
Who  slaves  redeemed  to  reign  o'er  men, 
Changing  the  falchion  for  the  pen, 
Alfred,  whom  yet  these  realms  obey, 
In  all  his  kingdom  owned  no  K, 
From  foreign  arms  and  letters  free. 
Preserved  his  Cyngly  dignity. 
And  wrote  it  with  a  Saxon  C. 
****** 

But  grant  this  specious  plea  prevailing, 
And  all  my  legal  learning  failing. 
There  yet  remains  so  black  a  charge. 
Not  only  'gainst  the  K's  at  large, 
But  the  individual  K  in  question. 
You'd  tremble  at  the  bare  suggestion, 
Nor  ever  more  a  wish  reveal 
So  adverse  to  the  public  weal. 


A    LITERAEY    LIFE.  165 

Dear  gentle  Earl,  you  little  know 

That  wish  might  work  a  world  of  woe ; 

The  ears  that  are  unborn  would  rise 

In  judgment  'gainst  your  lordship's  eyes ; 

The  ears  that  are  unborn  would  rue 

Your  letter  patent  to  renew 

The  dormant  dignity  of  shrew. 

The  K  restored  takes  off  the  attainder, 

And  grants  the  title,  with  remainder 

In  perpetuity  devised, 

To  Katharines  lawfully  baptized. 

What  has  not  Shakspeare  said  and  sung 

Of  our  pre-eminence  of  tongue  ! 

His  glowing  pen  has  writ  the  name 

In  characters  of  fire  and  flame ; 

Not  flames,  that  mingle  as  they  rise 

Innocuous  with  their  kindred  skies ; 

Some  chemic  lady-like  solution. 

Shown  at  the  Royal  Institution ; 

But  such  as  still,  with  ceaseless  clamor, 

Dance  round  the  anvil  and  the  hammer. 

See  him  the  comic  muse  invoking, 

(The  merry  nymph  with  laughter  choking) 

While  he  exhibits  at  her  shrine 

The  unhallowed  form  of  Katharine ; 

And  there  the  Gorgon  image  plants, — 

Palladium  of  the  termagants. 

He  formed  it  of  the  rudest  ore 

That  lay  in  his  exhaustless  store. 

Nor  from  the  crackling  furnace  drew, 

Which  still  the  breath  of  genius  blew, 

Till  (to  preserve  the  bright  allusion) 

The  mass  was  in  a  state  of  fusion. 

Then  cast  it  in  a  Grecian  mold. 

Once  modeled  from  a  living  scold; 

When  from  her  shelly  prison  burst 

That  finished  vixen,  Kate  the  curst. 

If  practice  e'er  with  precept  tallies. 

Could  Shakspeare  set  down  aught  in  malice  1 

From  Nature  all  his  forms  he  drew 

And  held  the  mirror  to  her  view ; 

And  if  an  ugly  wart  arose, 

Or  freckle  upon  Nature's  nose. 

He  flattered  not  the  unsightly  flaw. 

But  marked  and  copied  what  he  saw ; 

Strictly  fulfilling  all  his  duties 

Alike  to  blemishes  and  Ix'auties : 

So  that  in  Shakspeare's  time  'tis  plain 

The  Katharines  were  scolds  in  grain. 


166  K ECO L LECTIONS    OF 

No  fcuiak's  louder,  lii'ioor,  worse. 

Now  conteiuplate  tlie  bri^'lit  reverse ; 

Anil  say  amid  the  countless  names 

Borne  by  cotemporary  dames, — 

Exotics,  fetched  from  distant  nations, 

Or  good  old  English  ajjpellations, — 

Names  hunted  out  from  ancient  books, 

Or  found  'mid  dairy-iniiids  and  cooks, 

Genteel,  familiar  or  ])edantic, 

Grecian,  Roman  or  romantic, 

Christian,  Intidel  or  Jew, 

Heroines,  fabulous  or  true, 

Ruths,  Rebeccas,  Rachels,  Sarahs, 

Charlottes,  Harriets,  Emmas,  Claras, 

Auroras,  Helens,  Daphnes,  Delias, 

Martias,  Portias,  and  Cornelias, 

Nanuys,  Fannys,  Jennys,  Hettys, 

Dollys,  Mollys,  Biddys,  Bettys, 

Sacharissas,  Melusinas, 

Dulcibellas,  Celestinas, — 

Say  is  there  one  more  free  from  blame. 

One  that  enjoys  a  fairer  fame. 

One  more  endowed  with  Christian  graces, 

(Although  I  say  it  to  our  faces, 

And  flattery  we  don't  delight  in,) 

Than  Catherine  at  this  present  writing  1 

Where  then  can  all  the  difference  be  1 

Where  but  between  the  K  and  C  1 

Between  the  graceful  curving  line 

AVe  now  prefix  to  atherine, 

Which  seems  to  keep  in  mild  police, 

Those  rebel  syllables  in  peace, 

Describing  in  the  line  of  dutj' 

Both  physical  and  moral  beauty. 

And  that  impracticable  K 

Who  led  them  all  so  much  astray'? 

Was  never  seen  in  black  and  white 

A  character  more  full  of  spite  ! 

That  stubborn  back  to  bend  unskillful. 

So  perpendicularly  willful ! 

With  angles  hideous  to  behold 

Like  the  sharp  elbows  of  a  scold. 

In  attitude,  when  words  shall  fail 

To  fight  their  battles  tooth  and  nail. 

In  page  the  first  you're  sagely  told 
That  "  all  that  glitters  is  not  gold ;" 
Fain  would  I  quote  one  proverb  more, — 
"N'evcillez  pas  Ic  chat  qui  dort." 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  167 

Here  some  will  smile  as  if  suspicious 
The  simile  was  injudicious. 
Because  in  C  A  T  they  trace 
Alliance  with  the  feline  race. 
But  we  the  name  alone  inherit, 
C  has  the  letter,  K  the  spirit ; 
And  woe  betide  the  man  who  tries, 
Whether  or  no  the  spirit  dies ! 
Though  dormant  long,  it  yet  survives 
With  its  full  complement  of  lives ; 
The  nature  of  the  beast  is  still 
To  scratch  and  claw  if  not  to  kill ; 
For  royal  cats  to  low-born  wrangling 
Will  superadd  the  gift  of  strangling. 
Witness  in  modern  times  the  fate 
Of  that  unhappy  potentate, 
Who  from  his  palace  near  the  Pole 
Where  the  chill  waves  of  Neva  roll, 
Was  snatched,  while  yet  alive  and  merry, 
And  sent  on  board  old  Charon's  ferry, 
The  Styx  he  traversed  execrating 
A  Katharine  of  his  own  creating. 
***** 
In  evil  hour  this  simple  Czar 
Impelled  by  some  malignant  star 
Bestowed  upon  his  new  Czarina 
The  fatal  name  of  Katerina ; 
And  as  Monseigneur  I'Archeveque 
Chose  to  baptize  her  a  la  Qrecipie, 
'Twas  Katerina  with  a  K : 
He  rued  it  to  his  dying  day. 
Nay  died,  as  I  observed  before. 
The  sooner  on  that  very  score. 
The  Princess  quickly  learnt  her  cue, 
Improved  upon  the  part  of  shrew. 
And  as  the  j)lot  began  to  thicken. 
She  wrung  his  head  off  like  a  chicken ; 
In  short  this  despot  of  a  wife 
Robbed  tlie  poor  man  of  crown  and  life  ; 
And  robbing  Peter  paid  not  Paul, 
But  cleared  the  stage  of  great  and  small. 


Besides  these  genial  pleasantries,  many  shorter  poems  on  local 
and  temporary  subjects  enlivened  the  brilliant  circle  of  which 
Miss  Catherine  Fanshawe  Ibrmcd  so  precious  an  ornament. 
Many  have  perished  as  occasional  verses  will  perish,  however 


l»vS  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

happy.  I  insert  one  specimen  to  show  how  her  lively  faney 
could  emhellish  the  merest  trifle. 

AVhen  the  Resrent's  Park  was  first  laid  out  she  parodied  the 
two  well-known  lines  from  Pope's  "  Elegy  on  an  Unfortunate 
Lady  :" 

"  Hero  shall  the  spring  its  earliest  sweets  bestow, 
Here  the  first  roses  of  the  year  sliall  blow," 

and  by  only  altering  one  word  of  the  first  line,  and  a  single  letter 
of  the  second,  changed  their  entire  meaning,  and  I'endered  them 
applicable  to  the  new  resort  of  the  Londoners  : 

"  Here  shall  the  spring  its  earliest  coughs  bestow, 
Here  the  first  Jtoses  of  the  year  shall  blow." 

One  wonders  what  Pope  would  have  thought  of  such  a  parody. 
It  is  really  a  great  honor.     But  would  he  have  thought  so  ? 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  169 


XIV. 

MARRIED    POETS. 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING ROBERT    BROWNING. 

Married  poets  I  Charming  words  are  these,  significant  of 
congenial  gifts,  congenial  labor,  congenial  tastes  ; — quick  and 
sweet  resources  of  mind  and  of  heart,  a  long  future  of  happiness 
live  in  those  two  words.  And  the  reality  is  as  rare  as  it  is 
charming.  Married  authors  we  have  had  of  all  ages  and  of  all 
countries;  from  the  Daciers,  standing  stifi"  and  stately  under  their 
learning,  as  if  it  were  a  load,  down  to  the  Guizots,  whose  story  is 
so  pretty,  that  it  would  sound  like  a  romance  to  all  who  did  not 
know  how  often  romance  looks  pale  beside  reality  ;  from  the  ducal 
pair  of  Newcastle,  walking  stately  and  stiff  under  their  straw- 
berry-leafed coronets,  to  William  and  Mary  Howitt,  ornaments 
of  a  sect  to  whom  coronets  are  an  abomination.  Married  authors 
have  been  plentiful  as  blackberries,  but  married  poets  have  been 
rare  indeed  I  The  last  instance,  too,  was  rather  a  warning  than 
an  example.  When  Caroline  Bowles  changed  her  own  loved 
and  honored  name  to  become  the  wife  of  the  great  and  good  man 
Robert  Southey,  all  seemed  to  promise  fairly,  but  a  slow  and  fatal 
disease  had  seized  him  even  before  the  wedding-day,  and  dark- 
ened around  him  to  the  hour  of  his  death.  In  the  pair  of  whom 
I  am  now  to  speak,  the  very  reverse  of  this  sad  destiny  has  hap- 
pily befallen,  and  the  health  of  the  bride,  which  seemed  gone  for- 
ever, has  revived  under  the  influence  of  the  climate  of  Italy,  of 
new  scenes,  new  duties,  a  new  and  untried  felicity. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  is  too  dear  to  me  as  a  friend  to  bo 
spoken  of  merely  as  a  poetess.  Indeed  such  is  the  influence  of 
her  manners,  her  conversation,  her  temper,  her  thousand  sweet 
and  attaching  qualities,  that  they  who  know  her  best  are  apt  to 
lose  sight  altogether  of  her  learning  and  of  her  genius,  and  to 

H 


170  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

lliiiik  of  her  only  as  the  mosl  I'luiniiiiig  jhtsoii  that  iIrj'  have 
ever  met.  But  she  is  known  to  so  few,  and  the  peculiar  charac- 
teristics of  her  writings,  their  purity,  their  tenderness,  their  piety, 
and  their  intense  feeling  of  humanity  and  of  womanhood  have 
won  for  her  the  love  of  so  many,  that  it  will  gratify  thorn  with- 
out, I  trust,  infringing  on  the  sacredness  of  private  intercourse  to 
speak  of  her  not  wholly  as  a  poetess,  but  a  little  as  a  woman. 
When  in  listening  to  the  nightingale,  we  try  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  shy  songster,  we  are  moved  by  a  deeper  feeling  than  curi- 
osity. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  Elizabeth  Barrett  commenced  about 
fifteen  years  ago.  She  was  certainly  one  of  the  most  interesting 
persons  that  I  had  ever  seen.  Every  body  who  then  saw  her  saij 
the  same  ;  so  that  it  is  not  merely  the  impression  of  my  partiality. 
or  my  enthusiasm.  Of  a  slight,  delicate  figure,  with  a  showei 
of  dark  curls  falling  on  either  side  of  a  most  expressive  face,  largt? 
tender  eyes  richly  fringed  by  dark  eyelashes,  a  smile  like  a  sun- 
beam, and  such  a  look  of  youthfulness,  that  I  had  some  difficulty 
in  persuading  a  friend,  in  whose  carriage  we  went  together  to 
Chiswick,  that  the  translatress  of  the  "  Prometheus"  of  ^Eschy- 
lus,  the  authoress  of  the  "  Essay  on  Mind,"  was  old  enough  to  be 
introduced  into  company,  in  technical  language  was  out. 
Through  the  kindness  of  another  invaluable  friend,  to  whom  I 
owe  many  obligations,  but  none  so  great  as  this,  I  saw  much  of 
her  during  my  stay  in  town.  We  met  so  constantly  and  so  fa- 
miliarly that  in  spite  of  the  difference  of  age  intimacy  ripened 
into  friendship,  and  after  my  return  into  the  country,  we  corres- 
ponded freely  and  frequently,  her  letters  being  just  M'hat  letters 
ought  to  be — her  own  talk  put  upon  paper. 

The  next  year  was  a  painful  one  to  herself  and  to  all  who  loved 
her.  She  broke  a  blood-vessel  upon  the  lungs  which  did  not 
heal.  If  there  had  been  consumption  in  the  family  that  disease 
would  have  intervened.  There  were  no  seeds  of  the  fatal  English 
malady  in  her  constitution,  and  she  escaped.  Still,  however, 
the  vessel  did  not  heal,  and  after  attending  her  for  above  a 
twelvemonth  at  her  father's  house  in  W^impole  street.  Dr.  Cham- 
bers, on  the  approach  of  winter,  ordered  her  to  a  milder  climate. 
Her  eldest  brother,  a  brother  in  heart  and  in  talent  worthy  of 
frueh  a  sister,  together  with  other  devoted  relatives,  accompanied 
iier  to  Torquay,  and   there  occurred   ihe   fatal   event   which  sad- 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  171 

dened  her  bloom  of  youth,  and  gave  a  deeper  hue  of  thought  and 
feeling,  especially  of  devotional  feeling,  to  her  poetry.  I  have  so 
often  been  asked  what  could  be  the  shadow  that  had  passed  over 
that  young  heart,  that  now  that  time  has  softened  the  first  agony 
it  seems  to  me  right  that  the  world  should  hear  the  story  of  an 
accidentia  which  there  was  much  sorrow,  but  no  blame. 

Nearly  a  twelvemonth  had  passed,  and  the  invalid,  still  at- 
tended by  her  affectionate  companions,  had  derived  much  benefit 
from  the  mild  sea-breezes  of  Devonshire.  One  fine  summer 
morning  her  favorite  brother,  together  with  two  other  fine  young 
men,  his  friends,  embarked  on  board  a  small  sailing-vessel,  for  a 
trip  of  a  few  hours.  Excellent  sailors  all,  and  familiar  with  the 
coast,  they  sent  back  the  boatmen,  and  undertook  themselves  the 
management  of  the  little  craft.  Danger  was  not  dreamt  of  by 
any  one  ;  after  the  catastrophe,  no  one  could  divine  the  cause,  but 
in  a  few  minutes  after  their  embarkation,  and  in  sight  of  their 
very  windows,  just  as  they  were  crossing  the  bar,  the  boat  went 
down,  and  all  who  were  in  her  perished.  Even  the  bodies  were 
never  found.  I  was  told  by  a  party  who  was  traveling  that  year 
in  Devonshire  and  Cornwall,  that  it  was  most  affecting  to  see  on 
the  corner  houses  of  every  village  street,  on  every  chui'ch-door, 
and  almost  on  every  cliff  for  miles  and  miles  along  the  coast, 
handbills,  offering  large  rewards  for  linens  cast  ashore  marked 
with  the  initials  of  the  beloved  dead  ;  for  it  so  chanced  that  all 
the  three  were  of  the  dearest  and  the  best ;  one,  I  believe,  an  only 
son,  the  other  the  son  of  a  widow. 

This  tragedy  nearly  killed  Elizabeth  Barrett.  She  was  utterly 
prostrated  by  the  horror  and  the  grief,  and  by  a  natural  but  a 
most  unjust  feeling,  that  she  had  been  in  some  sort  the  cause  of 
this  great  misery.  It  was  not  until  the  following  year  that  she 
could  be  removed  in  an  invalid  carriage,  and  by  journeys  of 
twenty  miles  a  day,  to  her  afflicted  family  and  her  London  home. 
The  house  that  she  occupied  at  Torquay  had  been  chosen  as  one 
of  the  most  sheltered  in  the  place.  It  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the 
cliffs,  almost  close  to  the  sea  ;  and  she  told  me  herself,  that  during 
that  whole  winter  the  sound  of  the  waves  rang  in  her  ears  like 
the  moans  of  one  dying.  Still  slie  clung  to  literature  and  to 
Greek ;  in  all  probability  she  would  have  died  without  that 
wholesome  diversion  to  her  thoughts.  Her  medical  attendant  did 
not  always  understand  this.     To  prevent  the  remonstrances  of  her 


172  RECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

iVioiidly  pliysiciau,  Dr.  Ilanv,  she  caused  a  small  edition  of  Plato 
to  bo  so  bound  as  to  resemble  a  novel,  lie  did  not  know,  skillful 
and  kind  though  he  were,  that  to  her  .'•uch  books  were  not  aii 
arduous  and  painful  study,  but  a  consolation  and  a  delight. 

Returned  to  London,  she  began  the  life  which  she  continued 
for  so  many  years,  confmed  to  one  large  and  commodious  but 
darkened  chamber,  admitting  only  her  own  aflectionate  family 
and  a  few  devoted  friends  (1,  myself,  have  often  joyfully  traveled 
five-and-ibrty  miles  to  see  her,  and  returned  the  same  evening, 
■without  entering  another  house) ;  reading  almost  every  book 
worth  reading  in  almost  every  language,  and  giving  herself, 
heart  and  soul,  to  that  poetry  of  which  she  seemed  born  to  be  the 
priestess. 

Gradually  her  health  improved.  About  four  years  ago  she 
married  Mr.  Browning,  and  immediately  accompanied  him  to 
Pisa.  They  then  settled  at  Florence ;  and  this  summer  1  have 
had  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  seeing  her  once  more  in  London, 
with  a  lovely  boy  at  her  knee,  almost  as  well  as  ever,  and  telling 
tales  of  Italian  rambles,  of  losing  herself  in  chestnut  forests,  and 
scrambling  on  muleback  up  the  sources  of  extinct  volcanoes.  May 
Heaven  continue  to  her  such  health  and  such  happiness  I 

In  her  abundant  riches  it  is  difficult  to  select  extracts.  If  I  did 
not  know  her  scorn  of  her  own  earlier  works  (for  she  was  the  most 
precocious  of  authoresses,  wrote  largely  at  ten  years  old,  and  more 
than  well  at  tifteen) — if  I  were  not  aware  of  her  fastidiousness,  I 
should  be  tempted  to  rescue  certain  exquisite  stanzas  which  I  find 
printed  at  the  end  of  her  first  version  of  the  "  Prometheus  Bound" 
— for,  dissatisfied  Avith  her  girlish  translation  of  the  grand  old 
Greek,  she  recommenced  her  labor,  and  went  fairly  through  the 
drama  from  the  first  line  to  the  last ;  but  she  has  condemned  the 
poem,  and  therefore  I  refrain. 

Perhaps  there  is  some  personal  preference  in  the  selection  I  do 
make,  since  I  first  received  it  written  in  her  own  clear  and  beau- 
tiful manuscript,  on  the  fly-leaf  of  another  volume,  which  she  has 
also  withdrawn  from  circulation.  Besides  being  one  of  the  ear- 
liest, it  is  among  the  most  characteristic  of  her  smaller  poems. 

THE  SEAMEW. 

How  joyously  the  young  seamew 
Lay  dreaming  on  the  waters  blue, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  173 

"Whereon  our  little  bark  had  thrown 
A  forward  shade,  the  onl}'  one, 
(But  shadows  aye  will  men  pursue.) 

Familiar  with  the  waves,  and  free 
As  if  their  own  white  foam  were  he ; 
His  heart  upon  the  heart  of  ocean 
Lay  learning  all  its  mystic  motion 
And  throbbing  to  the  throbbing  sea. 

And  such  a  brightness  in  his  eye, 
As  if  the  ocean  and  the  sky 
Within  him  had  lit  up  and  nurst 
A  soul  God  gave  him  not  at  first 
To  comprehend  their  mystery. 

We  were  not  cruel,  yet  did  sunder 

His  white  wing  from  the  blue  waves  under, 

And  bound  it ; — while  his  fearless  eyes 

Looked  up  to  ours  in  calm  surprise, 

As  deeming  us  some  ocean  wonder. 

We  bore  our  ocean  bird  unto 
A  grassy  place  where  he  might  view 
The  tlowers  that  curtsy  to  the  bees, 
The  waving  of  the  tall  green  trees, 
The  falling  of  the  silver  dew. 

The  flowers  of  earth  were  pale  to  him 
Who  had  seen  the  rainbow  fishes  swim ; 
And  when  earth's  dew  around  him  lay 
He  thought  of  ocean's  winged  spray 
And  his  eye  waxed  pale  and  dim. 

The  gi'cen  trees  roiind  him  only  made 
A  prison,  with  their  darksome  shade : 
And  drooped  his  wing  and  mourned  ho 
For  his  own  boundless  glittering  sea, — 
Albeit  he  knew  not  they  could  fade. 

Then  One  her  gladsome  face  did  bring, 
Her  gentle  voice's  murmuring, 
In  -ocean's  stead  his  heart  to  move, 
And  teach  him  what  was  human  love — 
He  thought  it  a  strange  mournful  thing. 

He  lay  down  in  his  grief  to  die, 
(First  looking  to  the  sea-like  sky 
That  hath  no  waves,)  because,  alas! 
Our  human  touch  did  on  him  pass, 
And  with  our  touch,  our  agony. 


174  K  ECO  I- LECTIONS    OF 

Perhaps  tlio  very  fiiiost  of  Mrs.  Browning's  poems  is  "  The 
Lady  GoraUliiie's  Courtship,"  written  (to  meet  the  double  exi- 
froucy  ol"  completing  the  iiniforrnity  of  the  original  two  volumes, 
;uul  of  catehing  the  vessel  that  was  to  carry  the  pi'oofs  to  America) 
in  the  incredible  space  of  twelve  hours.  That  delicious  ballad 
iiuist  have  been  lying  unborn  in  her  head  and  in  her  heart ;  but 
Avhen  we  think  of  its  length  and  of  its  beauty,  the  shortness  of 
time  in  which  it  was  put  into  form  appears  one  of  the  most  stu- 
pendous eflbrts  of  the  human  mind.  And  the  writer  was  a  deli- 
cate woman,  a  confirmed  invalid,  just  dressed  and  supported  for 
two  or  three  hours  from  her  bed  to  her  sofa,  and  so  back  again 
Let  me  add,  too,  that  the  exertion  might  have  been  avoided  by  a 
new  arrangement  of  the  smaller  poems,  if  Miss  Barrett  would 
only  have  consented  to  place  "  Pan  is  Dead"  at  the  end  of  the 
first  volume  instead  of  the  second.  The  difierence  does  not  seem 
much.  But  she  had  promised  Mr.  Kenyon  that  "  Pan  is  Dead'' 
should  conclude  the  collection  ;  and  Mr.  Kenyon  was  out  of  town 
and  could  not  release  her  word.  To  this  delicate  conscientious- 
ness we  owe  one  of  the  most  charming  love-stories  in  any  lan- 
guage. It  is  too  long  for  insertion  here  ;  and  I  no  more  dare  ven- 
ture an  abridgment,  than  I  should  venture  to  break  one  of  the 
crown  jewels.  So  the  Dead  Pan  shall  take  the  place.  It  were 
mere  pedantry  to  compare  Schiller's  "  Gods  of  Greece''  to  this 
glorious  galler}'  of  classical  statues,  fresh  and  life-like,  as  if  just 
struck  into  beauty  by  the  chisel  of  Phidias. 

I  transcribe  Mrs.  Browning's  own  modest  and  graceful  intro- 
duction. 

THE  DEAD  PAN. 

"  Excited  by  Schiller's  '  Gutter  Griechenlands,'  and  partly  found- 
ed on  a  well-known  tradition  mentioned  in  a  treatise  of  Plutarch 
("  De  Oraculorum  Defeetu"),  according  to  which,  at  the  hour  of 
the  Savior's  agony,  a  cry  of  "  Great  Pan  is  Dead  !"  swept  across 
the  waves  hi  the  hearing  of  certain  mariners,  and  the  oracles 
ceased. 

"  It  is  in  all  veneration  to  the  memoiy  of  the  deathless  Schiller 
that  I  oppose  a  doctrine  still  more  dishonoring  to  poetry  than  to 
Christianity. 

"  As  Mr.  Kenyon's  graceful  and  harmonious  paraphrase  of  the 
German  poem  was  the  first  occasion  of  my  turning  my  thoughts 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  175 

in  this  direction,  I  take  advantage  of  the  pretense  to  indulge  my 
feelings  (which  overflow  on  other  grounds),  by  inscribing  my  lyric 
to  that  dear  friend  and  relative,  with  the  earnestness  of  appre- 
ciating esteem  as  well  as  of  afi'ectionate  gratitude. — E.  B.  B." 

Gods  of  Hellas  !  gods  of  Hellas  ! 
Can  ye  listen  in  your  silence  1 
Can  your  mystic  voices  tell  us 
Where  ye  hide  1 — In  floating  islands 
With  a  wind  that  evermore 
Keeps  you  out  of  sight  of  shore  1 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

In  what  revels  are  ye  sunken 

In  old  Ethiopia"? 

Have  the  Pygmies  made  you  drunken, 

Bathing  in  Mandragora 

Your  divine  pale  lips,  that  shiver 

Like  the  lilies  in  the  river  1 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

Do  ye  sit  there  still  in  slumber. 
In  gigantic  Alpine  rows  1 
The  black  poppies  out  of  number, 
Nodding,  dripping  from  your  brows 
To  the  red  lees  of  your  wine. 
And  so  kept  alive  and  fine  1 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

Or  lie  crushed  your  stagnant  corses 
Where  the  silver  spheres  roll  on. 
Stung  to  life  by  centric  forces, 
Thrown  like  rays  out  from  the  sun  1 
While  the  smoke  of  your  old  altars 
Is  the  shroud  that  round  you  welters  1 

Great  Pan  is  dead. 

"  Gods  of  Hellas,  gods  of  Hellas  !" 

Said  the  old  Hellenic  tongue. 

Said  the  hero-oaths,  as  well  as  •» 

Poets'  songs  the  sweetest  sung ! 

Have  ye  grown  deaf  in  a  day  1 

Can  ye  speak  not  yea  or  nay — 

Since  Pan  is  dead  1 

Do  ye  leave  your  rivers  flowing 

All  alone,  0  Naiades  ! 

While  your  drenched  locks  dry  slow  in 

This  cold  feeble  sun  and  breeze  1 


176  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Not  a  word  the  Naiads  sny 
Though  the  rivers  run  for  aye, — 

For  Pan  is  dead- 

From  the  glooiuing  of  tlie  ojik-wood, 
0,  ye  Dryads,  could  ye  flee  1 
At  the  rushing  thunder-stroke,  would 
No  sob  tremble  through  the  tree  1 
Not  a  word  the  Dryads  say, 
Though  the  forests  wave  for  aye, 

For  Pan  is  dead. 

Have  ye  left  the  mountain  places, 
Oreads  wild  for  other  tryst  1 
Shall  we  see  no  sudden  faces 
Strike  a  glory  through  the  mist  1 
Not  a  sound  the  silence  thrills 
Of  the  everlasting  hills. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

0,  twelve  gods  of  Plato's  vision 
Crowned  to  starry  wanderings, — 
With  your  chariots  in  procession 
And  your  silver  clash  of  wings. 
Very  pale  ye  seem  to  rise, 
Ghosts  of  Grecian  deities. 

Now  Pan  is  dead. 

Jove  !   that  right  hand  is  unloaded, 
Whence  the  thunder  did  prevail : 
While  in  idiotcy  of  godhead 
Thou  are  staring,  the  stars  pale ! 
And  thine  eagle,  blind  and  old. 
Roughs  his  feathers  in  the  cold. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

Where,  0  Juno!   is  the  glory 
Of  thy  regal  look  and  tread  ? 
Will  they  lay  for  evermore,  thee 
On  thy  dim  straight  golden  bed  1 
Will  thy  queendom  all  lie  hid 
Meekly  under  either  lidl 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

Ha,  Apollo  !     Floats  his  golden 
Hair,  all  mist-like  where  he  stands; 
While  the  Muses  hang  enfolding 
Knee  and  foot  with  faint  wild  hands. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  177 

'Neath  the  clanging  of  thy  bow 
Niobe  looked  lost  as  thou ! 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

Shall  the  casque  with  its  brown  iron 
Pallas'  broad  blue  eyes  eclipse, 
And  no  hero  take  inspiring 
From  the  God-greek  of  her  lips  1 
'Neath  her  olive  dost  thou  sit, 
Mars  the  mighty,  cursing  iti 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

Bacchus,  Bacchus!   on  the  Panther, 
He  swoons,  bound  with  his  own  vines ! 
And  his  Maenads  slowly  saunter, 
Head  aside  among  the  pines, 
While  they  murmur  dreamingly, 
Evohe — ah — evohe  ! 

Ah,  Pan  is  dead. 

Neptune  lies  beside  his  trident, 
Dull  and  senseless  as  a  stone : 
And  old  Pluto,  deaf  and  silent, 
Is  cast  out  into  the  sun. 
Ceres  smileth  stern  thereat, 
"We  all  now  are  desolate" — 

Now  Pan  is  dead. 

Aphrodite  !   dead  and  driven 
As  thy  native  foam  thou  art; 
With  the  cestus  long  done  heaving 
On  the  white  calm  of  thine  heart ! 
Ai  Adonis!    At  that  shriek 
Not  a  tear  runs  down  her  cheek — 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

And  tho  loves  we  used  to  know  from 
One  another — huddled  lie 
Frore  as  taken  in  a  snow-storm 
Close  beside  her  tenderly, — 
As  if  each  had  weakly  tried 
Once  to  kiss  her  ere  he  died. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

What,  and  Hermes  "?     Time  enthralleth 
All  thy  cunning,  Hermes,  thus, — 
And  the  ivy  blindly  crawleth 
Round  thy  brave  caduceus  1 
11* 


17S  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Ilast  lliou  no  new  message  for  us 
Full  of  thumler  and  Jove  glories  1 

Nay  !    Pan  is  dead. 

Crowned  Cybcle's  great  turret 
Rocks  and  crumbles  on  her  liead : 
Roar  the  lions  of  her  chariot 
Toward  the  wilderness  unfed : 
Scornful  children  are  not  mute. — 
"  Mother,  mother,  walk  afoot, — 

Since  Pan  is  dead. 

In  the  fiery-hearted  center 

Of  the  solemn  Universe,  ^ 

Ancient  Vesta, — who  could  enter 

To  consume  thee  with  this  curse  1 

Drop  thy  gray  chin  on  thy  knee, 

0,  thou  palsied  Mystery ! 

For  Pan  is  dead. 

Gods  !  we  vainly  do  adjure  you, — 
Ye  return  nor  words  nor  sign : 
Not  a  votary  could  secure  you 
Even  a  grave  for  your  Divine  ! 
Not  a  grave  to  show  thereby 
Here  those  graij  old  gods  do  lie. 

Pan.  Pan  is  dead. 

Even  that  Qreece  who  took  your  wages 

Calls  the  Obolus  outworn. 

And  the  horse  deep-throated  ages 

Laugh  your  godships  unto  scorn — 

And  the  poets  do  disclaim  you 

Or  grow  colder  if  they  name  you — 

And  Pan  is  dead. 

Gods  bereaved,  gods  belated, — 
With  your  purples  rent  asunder ! 
Gods  discrowiied  and  desecrated, — 
Disinherited  of  thunder ! 
Now  the  goats  may  climb  and  crop 
The  soft  grass  on  Ida's  top — 

Now  Pan  is  dead. 

Calm  of  old,  the  bark  went  onward 
When  a  cry  more  loud  than  wind 
Rose  up,  deepened,  and  swept  sunward, 
From  the  pil6d  Dark  behind : 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  179 

And  the  sun  shrank  and  grew  pale 
Breathed  against  by  the  great  wail — 

"  Pan,  Pan  is  dead." 

And  the  rowers  from  the  benches 
Fell,  each  shuddering  on  his  face — 
While  departing  Influences 
Struck  a  cold  back  through  the  place: 
And  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
Reeled  along  the  passive  deep — 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

I  have  no  room  for  the  rest,  but  I  must  find  a  place  for  one  ex- 
quisite stanza  : 

0,  ye  vain  false  gods  of  Hellas, 
Ye  are  silent  evermore ! 
And  I  dash  down  this  old  chalice 
Whence  libations  ran  of  yore. 
See  !  the  wine  crawls  in  the  dust 
Worm-like — as  your  glories  must ! 

Since  Pan  is  dead. 

The  last  edition  of  Mrs.  Browning's  poems  closes  with  three- 
and-forty  sonnets  from  the  Portuguese — glowing  with  passion, 
melting  with  tenderness.     True  love  was  never  more  fitly  sung  : 

AVhat  can  I  give  thee  back,  0  liberal 

And  princely  giver !  .  .  .  who  hast  brought  the  gold 

And  purple  of  thine  heart,  unstained,  untold, 

And  laid  them  on  the  outside  of  the  wall 

For  such  as  I  to  take  or  leave  withal 

In  unexpected  largesse  1     Am  I  cold, 

Ungrateful,  that  for  these  most  manifold 

High  gifts  I  render  nothing  back  at  all  1 

Not  so.     Not  cold  ! — but  very  poor  instead  ! 

Ask  God,  who  knows  !   for  fre<iuent  tears  have  run 

The  colors  from  my  life,  and  left  so  dead 

And  pale  a  stuff,  it  wore  not  fitly  done 

To  give  the  same  as  pillow  to  thy  head. 

Go  farther !   Let  it  serve  to  trample  on.         . 

There  is  a  deep  truth  in  this  which  follows  : 

Yet  love,  mere  love,  is  beautiful  indeed 
And  worthy  of  acceptation.     Fire  is  bright 
Let  temple  burn  or  fla.\  !      An  equal  light 


180  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Leaps  ill  the  flaim-  from  cedar  plant  or  weed. 

And  love  is  fire :    and  when  I  say  at  need. 

/  love  thcc — mark! — /  lore  thee!    in  thy  sight 

I  stand  transfigured,  glorified  aright 

Vith  con.scienco  of  the  now  rays  tliat  proceed 

Out  of  my  face  toward  thine.     There's  notliing  low 

In  love,  when  love  the  lowest:    meanest  creatures 

Who  love  God,  God  accepts  while  loving  so. 

And  what  I  fed,  across  the  inferior  features, 

Of  what  I  am  doth  flash  itself  and  show 

How  that  great  work  of  love  enhances  Nature's. 

The  same  visit  to  Loudon  that  brought  me  acquainted  with  my 
beloved  friend,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  first  gave  me  a  sight  of  Mr. 
Browning.  It  was  at  a  period  that  forms  an  epoch  in  the  an- 
nals of  the  modern  drama — the  first  representation  of  "  Ion." 

I  had  the  honor  and  pleasure  of  being  the  inmate  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Serjeant  Talfourd  (my  accomplished  friend  has  since  wor- 
thily changed  his  professional  title — but  his  higher  title  of  poet  is 
indelible) — having  been,  I  believe,  among  the  first  who  had  seen 
that  fine  play  in  manuscript.  The  dinner  party  consisted  merely 
of  Mr.  Wordsworth,  Mr.  Landor,  and  I  think  Mr.  Forster.  By  a 
singular  coincidence  it  was  our  host's  birthday,  and  no  one  pres- 
ent can  forget  the  triumph  of  the  evening — a  triumph  of  no  com- 
mon order  as  regarded  the  number,  the  quality,  or  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  audience  ;  the  boxes  being  crammed  to  the  ceiling,  and  the 
pit  filled,  as  in  an  elder  day,  with  critics  and  gentlemen. 

A  large  party  followed  the  poet  home  to  supper,  a  party  com- 
prising distinguished  persons  of  almost  every  class  ;  lawyers,  au- 
thors, actors,  artists,  all  were  mingled  around  that  splendid  board  ; 
healths  were  drunk  and  speeches  spoken,  and  it  fell  to  the  lot  of 
tlie  young  author  of  "  Paracelsus"  to  respond  to  the  toast  of  "  The 
Poets  of  England."  That  he  performed  this  task  with  grace  and 
modesty,  and  that  he  looked  still  younger  than  he  was,  I  well  re- 
member ;  but  we  were  not  introduced,  and  I  knew  him  only  by 
those  successive  works  which  redeemed  the  pledge  that  "Paracel- 
sus" had  given,  until  this  very  summer,  when  going  to  London 
purposely  to  meet  my  beloved  friend,  I  was  by  her  presented  to 
her  husband.  Ah  I  I  hope  it  will  not  be  fifteen  years  again  be- 
fore we  look  each  other  in  the  face  again  I 

I  never  see  those  two  volumes  of  his  collected  works  which 
correspond  so  prettily  with  the  last  edition  of  Mrs.  Browning's 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  181 

poems — a  sort  of  literary  twins — without  wishing  again  and 
again,  and  again,  that  we  had  actors  and  a  stage.  Besides  ''  The 
Blot  on  the  Scutcheon"  which  has  been  successfully  produced  at 
two  metropolitan  theaters,  "  Colombe's  Birthday"  and  "  Lucia" 
show  not  only  what  he  has  done,  but  what  with  the  hope  of  a 
great  triumph  before  him  he  might  yet  do  as  a  dramatist.  I 
could  show  what  I  mean  by  transcribing  the  last  act  of  "  Co- 
lombe's Birthday."  I  could  make  my  meaning  clearer  still  by 
transcribing  the  whole  play.  But  as  these  huge  borrowings  are 
out  of  the  question,  I  must  limit  myself  to  a  couple  of  dramatic 
lyrics,  each  of  which  tells  its  own  story  : 

MY  LAST   DUCHESS.— FERRARA. 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall 

Looking  as  if  she  were  alive ;  I  call 

That  piece  a  wonder  now :  Fra  Pandolf 's  hands 

Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 

Will't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her"?     I  said 

"  Fra  Pandolf"  by  design,  for  never  read 

Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance. 

The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 

But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 

The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  yon  but  I), 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst 

How  such  a  glance  came  there ;   so  not  the  first 

Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  'twas  not 

Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 

Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek ;  perhaps 

Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "  Her  mantle  laps 

Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "  Paint 

Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 

Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat ;"  such  stuff 

Was  courtesy  she  thought;  and  cause  enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 

A  heart — how  shall  I  say  1 — too  soon  made  glad, 

Too  easily  imprest ;  she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  'twas  all  one !  my  favor  at  her  breast 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mulo 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech. 

Or  blush  at  least.     She  thanked  men — good ;  but  thanked 

Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 


182  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

My  gift  of  a  iiinc-luindird  years  old  name 

With  any  body's  gift.     AVlio'd  stoop  to  l)l:iinc 

This  sort  of  triHingl     Even  had  you  skill 

In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say :  "  Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  mo ; — here  you  miss 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark  ;"  and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 

Her  wits  to  yours  forsooth  and  made  excuse, 

— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping,  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.     Oh,  Sir,  she  smiled  no  doubt 

"Whene'er  I  passed  her ;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile  1     This  grew ;  I  gave  commands, 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.     Will't  please  you  rise  1     We'll  meet 

The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretense 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed ; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.    Nay,  we'll  go 

Together  down.  Sir  !    Notice  Neptune  though 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity 

Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me. 

Poor  dead  Duchess  I  and  poor  living  one  too  I  for  that  com- 
plaisant embassador  who  listened  so  silently  would  hardly  give 
warning,  even  if  the  father  w^ere  likely  to  take  it  ;  and  we  feel 
as  they  walk  down  the  palace  stairs  that  another  victim  comes. 

The  pathos  of  the  next  lyric  is  of  a  different  order. 

HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX. 

[16-.] 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  loris  and  he  ; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three ; 

"  Good  speed !"  cried  the  watch  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew, 

"  Speed  !"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through ; 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other :  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place, 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight. 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  183 

'Tvvas  moonset  at  starting,  but  while  we  drew  near 

Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear ; 

At  Boom  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see  ; 

At  Diifteld  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be ; 

And  from  Mechelm  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half  chime, 

So  loris  broke  silence  with  "  Yet  there  is  time  !" 

At  Aerschot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sua 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past. 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track ; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance  ! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upward  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  loris,  "Stay  spur! 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her 

We'll  remember  at  Aix" — for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck,  and  staggering  knees. 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank. 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  loris  and  I, 

Past  Loos  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  tho  brittle  bright  stubble  like  chaff; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dorae-spire  sprang  white, 

And  "  Gallop,"  gasped  loris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight! 

"How  they'll  greet  us!" — and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  crop  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone  ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news,  which  alone  could  save  Ai.K  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  tho  brim, 
And  witli  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each  hohster  let  fall. 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all. 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer; 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 


184  KECOLLKCTIONS    OF 

And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flocking  round, 

As  I  «ate  witii  his  head  twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground, 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  one  last  measure  of  wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from  Ghent. 

Although  we  have  cause  to  hope  that  the  pood  steed  recovered, 
yet  his  trial  of  speed  and  strenjs^h  is  too  painful  to  conclude  with. 
1  add  a  few  lines  from  the  "  Englishman  in  Italy,"  a  long  poem 
so  pulpy,  so  juicy,  so  full  of  bright  color  and  of  rich  detail,  that  it 
is  just  like  a  picture  by  Rubens.  Selection  is  difficult — but  I 
choose  the  passage  in  question  because  its  exceeding  truth  was 
first  pointed  out  to  me  by  Mr.  Ruskin. 

But  to-day  not  a  boat  reached  Salerno, 

So  back  to  a  man 
Came  our  friends  with  whose  help  in  the  vineyards 

Grape-harvest  began : 
In  the  vat  half-way  up  on  our  house-side 

Like  blood  the  juice  spins. 
While  your  brother  all  bare-legged  is  dancing 

Till  breathless  he  grins 
Dead  beaten  in  effort  on  effort 

To  keep  the  grapes  under, 
Since  still  when  he  seems  all  but  master 

In  pours  the  fresh  plunder 
From  girls  who  keep  coming  and  going 

With  basket  on  shoulder — 


Meanwhile  see  the  grape-bunch  they've  brought  yoti, 

The  rain-water  slips 
O'er  the  heavy  blue  bloom  on  each  globe. 

Which  the  wa.sp  to  your  lips 
Still  follows  with  fretful  persistence — 

Nay  taste  while  awake 
This  half  of  a  curd-white  smooth  cheese-ball, 

That  peels  flake  by  flake 
Like  an  onion's  each  smoother  and  whiter; 

Next  sip  this  weak  wine 
From  the  thin  green  flask  with  its  stopper 

A  leaf  of  the  vine — 
And  end  with  the  prickly  pear's  red  flesh, 

That  leaves  through  its  juice 
The  stony  black  seeds  on  your  pearl  teeth — 


and  so  on. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  185 


XV. 

PROSE    PASTORALS. 
SIR  PHILIP  Sydney's  arcadia — isaac  Walton's  complete 

ANGLER. 

During  this  warm  summer,  and  above  all  during  this  dry 
burning  harvest  weather,  which  makes  my  poor  little  roadside 
cottage  (the  cottage  which  for  that  reason  among  others  I  am 
about  to  leave)  so  insupportable  from  glare,  and  heat,  and  dust  in 
the  fine  season,  I  have  the  frequent,  almost  daily  habit  of  sally- 
ing forth  into  the  charming  green  lane,  the  grassy,  turfy,  shady 
lane  of  which  I  have  before  made  mention,  and  of  which  I  share 
the  use  and  the  enjoyment  with  the  gipsys.  Last  summer  I 
was  able  to  walk  thither,  but  in  the  winter  I  was  visited  by 
rheumatism,  and  can  not  walk  so  far  without  much  heat  and 
fatigue  ;  so  my  old  poney-phaeton  conveys  me  and  my  little  maid, 
and  my  pet-dog  Fanchon,  and  my  little  maid's  needle-work  of 
flounces  and  fineries,  and  my  books  and  writing-case,  as  far  as 
the  road  leads,  and  sometimes  a  little  farther  ;  and  we  proceed  to 
a  certain  green  hillock  under  down-hanging  elms,  close  shut  in 
between  a  bend  in  the  lane  on  our  own  side,  and  an  amphithea- 
ter of  oak  and  ash  and  beech  trees  opposite  ;  where  we  have 
partly  found  and  partly  scooped  out  for  ourselves  a  turfy  seat  and 
turfy  table  redolent  of  wild-thyme  and  a  thousand  fairy-flowers, 
delicious  in  its  coolness,  its  fragrance,  and  its  repose. 

Behind  the  thick  hedge  on  the  one  hand  stretch  fresh  water- 
meadows,  where  the  clear  brook  wanders  in  strange  meanders 
between  clumps  of  alder-bushes  and  willow-pollards  ;  fringed  by 
the  blue  forget-me-not,  the  yellow  loosestrife,  the  purple  willow- 
herb,  and  the  creamy  tufts  of  the  queen  of  the  meadow  ;  on 
the  other  hand  we  catch  a  glimpse  over  gates  of  large  tracts  of 
arable  land,  wheat,  oat,  clover,  and  bean  fields,  sloping  upward 


186  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 

to  the  sun  ;  and  lioar,  not  loo  closely,  the  creaking  wajjon  and 
tlie  sliarpenin<i  sytlie,  the  whistle,  the  halloo,  and  the  laujih,  all 
that  lorins  the  pleasant  sound  of  harvest  labor.  Just  beyond  the 
bend  in  the  lane  too,  are  two  fires,  belonging  to  two  distinct  en- 
campments of  gipsys  ;  and  the  children,  dogs,  and  donkeys  of 
these  wandering  tribes  are  nearly  the  only  living  things  that 
come  into  sight,  exciting  Fanchon  now  to  pretty  defiance,  now  to 
prettier  fear. 

This  is  my  constant  resort  on  summer  afternoons ;  and  there 
I  have  the  habit  of  remaining  engaged  either  with  my  book  or 
with  my  pen  until  the  decline  of  the  sun  gives  token  that  Ave 
may  gather  up  our  several  properties,  and  that  aided  by  my 
stafi'  I  may  take  a  turn  or  two  in  the  smoothest  part  of  the 
lane  and  proceed  to  meet  the  pony-chaise  at  a  gate  leading  to  the 
old  Manor  House  which  forms  the  usual  termination  of  my  walk. 

Now  this  stafT,  one  of  the  oldest  friends  I  have  in  the  world, 
is  pretty  nearly  as  well  known  as  myself  in  our  Berkshire  village. 

Sixty  years  ago  it  was  a  stick  of  quality,  and  belonged  to  a 
certain  Duchess  Dowager  of  Atholl,  that  Duchess  of  Atholl  who 
was  in  her  own  right  Baroness  Strange  and  Lady  of  Mann,  with 
whom  we  had  some  acquaintance  because  her  youngest  son 
married  a  first  cousin  of  my  father's  and  took  the  name  of  Ayns- 
ley  as  his  wife  had  done  before  him,  as  a  condition  of  inheriting  an 
estate  in  Northumberland.  I  have  a  dim  recollection  of  the 
Duchess,  much  such  an  one  as  Dr.  Johnson  had  of  Q,ueen  Anne, 
as  "  a  stately  lady  in  black  silk."  Well  I  in  her  time  the  stick 
was  a  stick  of  distinction,  but  on  her  leaving  her  Berkshire 
house  it  was  left  behind  and  huddled  by  an  auctioneer  into  a  lot 
of  old  umbrellas,  watering-pots,  and  flower-stands  which  my 
father  bought  for  a  song.  I  believe  that  he  made  the  purchase 
chiefly  for  the  sake  of  this  stick,  which  he  presented  to  my 
mother's  faithful  and  favorite  old  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Mosse,  who 
lived  in  our  family  sixty  years,  and  was  sufficiently  lame  to  find 
such  a  support  of  great  use  and  comfort  in  her  short  and  un- 
frequent  walks.  During  her  time  and  for  her  sake,  I  first  con- 
tracted a  familiar  and  friendly  acquaintanceship  with  this  ancient 
piece  of  garniture.  It  was  indeed  a  stick  of  some  pretension,  of 
the  order  commonly  called  a  crook,  such  as  may  be  seen  upon  a 
chimney-piece  figuring  in  the  hand  of  some  trim  shepherdess  of 
Dresden  china.     W'hat  the  wood  might  have  been  I  can  not  tell ; 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  187 

light,  straight,  slender,  strong  it  certainly  was,  polished  and 
veined,  and  as  I  first  remember  it  yellowish  in  color,  although  it 
became  darker  as  it  advanced  in  age.  It  was  among  the  tallest 
of  its  order  ;  nearly  five  feet  high,  and  headed  with  a  crook  of 
ivory,  bound  to  the  wood  by  a  broad  silver  rim, — as  lady-like  a 
stick  as  could  be  seen  on  a  summer's  day.  The  only  one  of  the 
sort  I  ever  met  with  had  belonged  to  the  great-grandmother  of 
a  friend  of  mine,  and  was  handed  down  as  a  family  relic  ;  that 
crook,  probably  of  the  same  age  as  ours,  was  more  ornate  and 
elaborate,  it  had  a  curious  carved  handle,  not  unlike  the  hilt  of 
a  sword,  decorated  with  a  leather  tassel,  so  to  say  a  stick-knot. 

Well,  poor  Mossy  died  ;  and  the  stick,  precious  upon  her  ac- 
count, became  doubly  so  when  my  own  dear  mother  took  to 
using  it  during  her  latter  days,  and  when  she  also  followed  her 
old  servant  to  a  happier  world.  And  then  every  body  knows 
how  the  merest  trifles  which  have  formed  part  of  the  daily  life 
of  the  loved  and  lost,  especially  those  things  which  they  have 
touched,  are  cherished  and  cared  for  and  put  aside  ;  how  we 
dare  not  look  upon  them  for  very  love  ;  and  how  by  some  acci- 
dent that  nobody  can  explain  they  come  to  light  in  the  course 
of  time,  and  after  a  momentary  increase  of  sadness  help  to  fa- 
miliarize and  render  pleasant  the  memory  by  which  they  are  en- 
deared. It  is  a  natural  and  right  process,  like  the  springing  of 
a  flower  upon  a  grave.  So  the  stick  re-appeared  in  the  hall, 
and  from  some  whim  which  I  have  never  rightly  understood  my- 
self, I,  who  had  no  more  need  of  such  a  supporter  than  the 
youngest  woman  in  the  parish,  who  was  indeed  the  best  walker 
of  my  years  for  a  dozen  miles  round,  and  piqued  myself  not  a 
little  upon  so  being,  took  a  fancy  to  use  this  stick  in  my  own 
proper  person,  and  most  pertinaciously  carried  this  fancy  into 
execution.  Much  was  I  laughed  at  for  this  crotchet,  and  I 
laughed  too.  Friends  questioned,  strangers  stai'ed  ;  but  impassive 
to  stare  or  to  question,  I  remained  constant  to  my  supporter. 
Except  when  I  went  to  London  (for  I  paid  so  much  homage  to 
pubhc  opinion  as  to  avoid  such  a  display  there)  I  should  as  soon 
have  thought  of  walking  out  without  my  bonnet  as  without  my 
stick.     That  stick  was  my  inseparable  companion. 

To  be  sure  we  met  with  a  lew  misadventures  in  our  compan- 
ionship. Once  I  left  my  prop  behind  me  in  a  marquee  at  a 
cricket  match,  and   it  had   well-nigh  been  tossed  away  among 


188  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

the  liMit-polos  ;  once  it  was  stuck  ajiainst  a  bush  in  a  copse  where 
1  liappoiied  to  be  uuttiiip  and  pot  well  thrashed  (aecording  to 
the  notable  example  of  tSancho  with  the  galley->laves),  in  com- 
pany with  its  brethren  the  hazel-rods  ;  once  it  was  lost  in  a  fair 
(I  am  not  sure  that  it  was  not  cried  upon  that  occasion)  ;  often 
forsrotlen  in  halls  and  vestibules  ;  and  once  fairly  stolen  by  a 
mischievous  school-boy  from  a  friend's  portico. 

This  last  calamity  cost  me  a  ten-mile  walk,  undertaken  with  an. 
alacrity  which  proved  how  little  I  really  needed  my  trusty  sup- 
porter. Before  I  had  discovered  my  loss — for  that  same  prop  of 
mine  had  passed  many  a  summer  night  leaning  against  the  pillars 
of  that  portico — before  1  had  even  dreamt  of  the  mishap,  the  papa 
and  mamma  of  the  delinquent,  chancing  to  have  old-fashioned 
notions  of  good-breeding,  sent  a  servant  with  a  magnificent  note, 
in  the  third  person,  setting  forth  in  the  choicest  terms  their  regret 
and  displeasure,  deprecating  my  anger,  and  entreating  me  to  fix 
the  day  and  the  hour  on  which  they  and  the  culprit  might  be 
permitted  to  wait  upon  me  to  renew  their  excuses  in  person.  Such 
a  note  I  In  diction,  in  caligraphy,  in  folding,  it  would  have  done 
honor  to  "  The  Polite  Letter-writer  :"  the  paper  stamped  with  an 
oak-wreath,  and  breathing  of  ottar  of  roses,  and  the  seal  as  big  as 
that  bearing  her  Majesty's  arms  from  a  public  office,  were  real 
Avorks  of  art.  I  could  as  soon  have  answered  such  a  letter,  or 
have  sat  in  state  to  receive  the  threatened  apology,  as  I  could 
have  taken  a  journey  in  the  air  upon  a  broomstick.  Greatly  pre- 
ferring the  offense  to  the  reparation,  I  had  nothing  for  it  but  to 
forestall  the  visit,  shake  hands  with  the  poor  boy,  who  turned  out 
a  fine  spirited  lad,  and  try,  by  laughing  over  the  matter  with  his 
parents,  to  bring  about  a  general  pacification ;  in  which  attempt, 
they  being  loss  formidable  in  person  than  on  paper,  I  happily  suc- 
ceeded. 

Manifold  have  been  our  escapes.  One  was  from  an  adventure 
natuial  to  the  stick-genus — a  battle. 

Walking  past  a  farm-house,  by  the  side  of  a  fair  neighbor,  with 
no  other  companions  than  our  dogs ;  hers  a  beautiful  King 
Charles,  mine  a  no  less  beautiful  and  far  rarer  spaniel  of  the  old 
brown  cocking  breed.  Flush,  the  father  of  Fanchon  ; — our  poor 
pets  were  set  upon  by  a  furious  yard-dog,  unluckily  let  loose,  a 
tremendous  mastiff,  dangerous  to  man  and  beast.  The  King 
Charles  fled  to  his  mistress,  who  instantly  caught  him  up.    Flush 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  189 

stood  his  ground,  and  would,  I  verily  believe,  have  been  killed 
but  for  me  and  my  weapon.  We  did  battle  valiantly,  and  con- 
trived to  stand  our  ground  until  in  a  space  of  time  which  seemed 
very  long,  and  was,  I  suppose,  very  short,  the  din  brought  Ibrth 
the  farmer,  who,  in  the  midst  of  a  storm  of  screaming,  scolding, 
growling,  and  barking,  choked  oft'  his  brute,  and  left  my  friend 
and  me,  the  danger  being  over,  so  frightened  that  we  could 
hardly  get  home.  Although  she  .had  naturally  consulted  the 
safety  of  her  own  pet  first,  she  had  done  her  duty  womanfully,  so 
far  as  screaming  went.  That  was  the  first  fight  I  ever  was  in  in 
my  life,  and  I  hope  it  will  be  the  last. 

Another  misfortune,  so  to  say  personal,  which  befell  my  staff, 
was  the  loss  of  its  own  head — the  ivory  crook,  which  came  off  in 
the  act  of  pulling  down  a  rich  branch  of  woodbine  from  the  top 
of  a  hedge.  A  deep  muddy  ditch  received  the  poor  crook,  which 
sank  instantly,  and  in  spite  of  efforts  many  and  various  could 
never  be  recovered.  The  worst  part  of  this  mutilation  was,  as 
often  happens  to  living  patients,  the  cure.  Being  sent  to  a 
parasol-shop  to  have  a  new  crook  put  on,  the  stupid  people  first 
docked  many  inches  of  its  height,  and  then  stuck  on  so  clumsily 
a  heavy  bone  umbrella-top,  that  it  fell  off  in  a  few  days  of  its 
own  accord  without  any  accident  at  all.  And  the  poor  stick 
might  have  remained  forever  headless,  and  "  curtailed  of  his 
fair  proportions,"  but  that  a  friend  of  mine  (one  of  those  persons 
who  knows  how  to  do  kind  things  in  little  as  well  as  in  great) 
happened  to  remember  that  she  had  an  ebony  top  that  would 
just  fit  it ;  and  her  husband,  with  equal  kindness,  completed  the 
good  action  by  fastening  on  the  shining  black  knob  so  adi'oitly, 
that,  although  it  has  been  now  four  or  five  years  in  wear,  it  re- 
mains as  firm  as  the  first  day,  looking  only  a  little  graver,  and 
more  fit  for  the  poor  old  mistress,  who  having  at  first  taken  to  a 
staff  in  sport,  is  now  so  lame  as  to  be  unable  to  walk  without  one. 

And  since  the  black  head  has  supplanted  the  white  one,  another 
association  has  come  to  endear  this  friend  of  sixty  years.  A  little 
boy,  called  Henry,  the  child  of  the  house  (son,  by  the  way,  to  the 
hemmer  of  flounces)  has,  ever  since  he  has  been  four  years  old, 
watched  my  ways,  and  ministered  unbidden  to  my  wants  and 
fancies.  Long  before  he  could  open  the  outer  door,  before,  indeed, 
he  was  half  the  height  of  the  wand  in  qu(;stion,  there  ho  would 
stand,  the  stick  in  one  hand,  and  if  it  were  summer  time  a  flower 


190  RECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

in  tlie  other,  waitinp:  for  my  jroiiig  out,  the  pretty  Saxon  boy,  with 
his  upri^rht  ii<;ure,  liis  golden  liair,  his  eyes  like  two  stars,  and  his 
bright,  intelligent  smile!  We  were  so  used  to  see  him  there, 
silent  and  graceful  as  a  queen's  page,  that  when  he  returned  to 
school  after  the  holydays,  and  somebody  else  presented  the  stick 
and  the  rose,  I  hardly  cared  to  take  them.  It  seemed  as  if  some- 
thing was  wrong,  1  missed  him  so.  Most  punctual  of  petted 
children  I     What  would  Henry  have  said  to-day  ? 

I  might  have  observed,  if  I  had  only  seen  what  passed  before 
my  eyes,  that  something  was  amiss  in  our  small  household  ;  that 
Sarah  answered  the  bell,  and  that  the  hemmer  of  flounces,  when 
she  did  appear,  seemed  flurried  and  fatigued.  But  I  was  think- 
ing of  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  of  the  "Defense  of  Poetry,"  of  the 
"  Arcadia."  and  of  my  own  resolution  to  proceed  to  the  green 
lane,  and  to  dissect  that  famous  pastoral,  and  select  from  the 
mass,  which  even  to  myself  I  hardly  confess  to  be  ponderous,  suQh 
passages  as  might  suit  an  age  that  by  no  means  partakes  of  my 
taste  for  folios.  So  I  said  to  her,  "  That  the  afternoon  being  cool, 
and  I  less  lame  than  usual,  I  thought  we  should  not  need  Sam 
and  the  pony-chaise,  but  that  I  could  manage  by  the  help  of  rny 
stick." 

At  that  word  out  burst  the  terrible  tidings.  My  stick,  rny 
poor  old  stick,  my  life-long  friend,  the  faithful  companion  of  so 
many  walks,  was  missing,  was  gone,  was  lost !  Last  night,  on 
our  return  from  the  lane,  the  place  in  the  pony-chaise  where 
Sam  and  I  had  carefully  deposited  it  was  found  vacant.  Sam 
himself,  that  model  of  careful  drivers  and  faithful  servants,  had 
run  back  the  moment  he  had  unharnessed  the  pony,  had  retraced 
every  step  of  the  road,  beating  the  ground  like  a  pointer,  question- 
ing every  body,  oflering  rewards,  visiting  ale-houses  and  beer- 
houses (places  that,  without  special  cause,  Sam  never  does  visit), 
to  make  proclamation  of  the  loss,  and  finishing  all  by  getting  up 
at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  beating  the  beaten  ground 
over  again.  She  herself,  who  so  seldom  stirs  without  me,  and 
so  seldom  lets  me  stir  Avithout  her,  that  she  may  pass  for  ray 
shadow,  or  (without  ofi^ense  be  it  spoken)  for  a  sort  of  walking- 
stick  herself,  she  had  sallied  forth,  visiting  lane  and  field,  road 
and  meadow,  questioning  reaper  and  gipsy,  a  sort  of  living  hue 
and  cry. 

"  An^,  really.  Ma'am,"  quoth  she,  "there  is  some  comfort   in 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  191 

the  interest  the  people  take  in  the  stick  I  If  it  were  any  thing 
alive,  the  pony  or  Fanchon  or  little  Henry,  or  we  ourselves,  they 
could  not  be  more  sorry.  Master  Brent,  Ma'am,  at  the  top  of 
the  street,  he  promises  to  speak  to  every  body  ;  so  does  "William 
Wheeler,  who  goes  everywhere  ;  and  Mrs.  Bromley,  at  the  shop  ; 
and  the  carrier  and  the  postman.  I  dare  say  the  whole  parish 
knoM's  it  by  this  time  I  I  have  not  been  outside  the  gate  to-day, 
but  a  dozen  people  have  asked  me  if  we  had  heard  oi  our  stick  1 
It  must  turn  up  soon.  If  one  had  but  the  slightest  notion  where 
it  was  lost  I  I  do  declare,  Ma'am,"  continued  she,  interrupting 
her  lamentations,  "  that  you  don't  seem  to  be  so  much  troubled 
about  the  poor  stick  as  I  am  I"  And  with  all  her  regard  for  me, 
I  think  she  was  a  little  scandalized  at  my  philosophy. 

"  Why  you  and  Sam  seem  to  have  done  all  that  can  be  done," 
replied  I  ;  "  and  perhaps  if  we  go  into  the  lane  we  may  hear 
some  tidings  of  my  poor  staff,  for  I  shall  be  sorry  to  lose  such  an 
old  friend  I" 

"  Ah  !"  said  she,  "  if  one  did  but  know  where  it  dropped  out 
of  the  chaise  I'' 

And  so  we  set  forth,  I  with  a  new  stick  of  Sam's  purveying,  a 
provisional  stick,  whose  very  roughness  and  imperfection  proved 
that  that  faithful  adherent  by  no  means  despaired  of  recovering 
my  legitimate  supporter. 

My  little  damsel  was  not  wrong  in  accusing  me  of  being  calmer 
than  she  thought  quite  becoming  under  so  severe  a  calamity  ;  but 
as  her  inquietude  and  nervousness  proceeded  mainly  from  the  state 
of  feverish  and  impatient  expectation,  the  mixture  of  hope  and 
fear,  in  which  she  had  passed  the  last  twenty  hours,  so  the  ab- 
sence of  suspense  and  expectation  had  much  to  do  with  my  res- 
ignation. I  had  some  suspicion  as  to  the  place  in  which  the 
stick  had  dropped,  and  no  great  hope  of  finding  it. 

Day  by  day,  as  the  sun  went  down,  Ave  had  the  habit  of  being 
taken  up  at  the  gate  of  the  short  avenue  that  leads  to  the  old 
Manor  House  ;  an  abrupt  turn,  where  the  soft  turf  of  the  wide 
lane  ends,  and  the  gravel  road  begins.  This  road,  not  much  fre- 
quented, in  general  is  full  of  the  harvest  population  during  this 
harvest  month  :  groups  of  reapers,  men  and  women,  full-grown 
girl  and  half-grown  boy,  and  little  child — the  little  child  who 
watches  by  the  baby  in  the  cradle  while  the  mother  reaps.  On 
that   side,  too.  they  liad  just  begun   to   carry  tlie   yellow  sheaves 


192  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

which  studded  so  richly  the  great  open  cornfields  that  hordered 
one  edge  of  the  winding  road,  as  the  grounds  of  the  old  mansion, 
Avith  their  tall  olins  and  rustic  paling,  hordered  the  other.  Just 
in  front,  crossing  the  road,  and  meandering  after  its  own  willful 
fashion,  came  the  hrook,  traversed,  at  the  choice  of  the  waylkrer, 
by  a  low  two-arched  bridge,  or  by  a  wide  shallow  ford,  just 
below. 

Now  this  has  been  a  summer  of  great  drought  hereabout,  and 
we  suller  much  from  summer  drought  in  the  cottage  which  we 
are  about  to  leave,  as  places  that  feel  most  the  winter  damp  very 
frequently  do  ;  the  mud  of  one  season  baking  into  a  brick-like 
clay  at  another  ;  the  ponds  becoming  dry  under  the  same  sunny 
influence,  and  the  wells  (for  we  have  two)  failing  altogether  just 
when  they  are  most  wanted.  I  think  the  thing  of  all  others 
which  has  most  reconciled  me  to  quitting  the  poor  old  place — the 
old  home  with  all  its  faults — is  the  contra.st  which  the  new  cot- 
tage ofi'ers  as  to  water.  There  we  shall  have  a  pump  that  is 
never  dry ;  two  springs  to  which  the  whole  parish  resorts ;  the 
men  with  yokes  and  pails,  the  women  with  pitchers,  almost  clas- 
sical ;  two  clear  gushing  springs,  a  pond  and  a  river  I 

However,  we  have  not  yet  moved,  and  this  delicious  wateriness 
to  come  has  little  profited  us  during  this  sultry  August.  The 
fourfooted  part  of  our  family  has  particularly  felt,  not  the  abso- 
lute want — for,  we  fetch,  and  beg,  and  buy,  and  all  but  steal — 
but  the  limitation  of  that  prime  luxury  of  nature.  So  Sam  al- 
ways drives  through  the  ford  to  cool  the  ponys  feet,  and  com- 
monly stops  long  enough  in  the  middle  to  allow  of  his  enjoying 
a  good  drink  of  the  clear  ghttering  pool ;  while  Fanchon,  who 
during  the  rainy  season  is  as  tender  of  wetting  her  pretty  paws 
as  a  cat,  has  latterly  condescended  to  walk  out  of  the  little  car- 
riage, in  which  it  is  her  delight  to  sit  perched,  to  walk  trem- 
blingly and  gingerly — something  as  a  fine  lady  steps  out  of  a 
bathing-machine,  but  still  to  walk  down  the  steps,  and  drop  into 
the  water — drinking  in  the  same  slow,  mincing,  half-reluctant 
manner,  but  still  drinking,  and  then  pausing  upon  the  brink  to 
be  taken  home.  Yesterday  evening,  I  remembered  that  instead 
of  walking  gingerly  down  the  steps,  stopping  half  a  minute  upon 
one,  and  a  whole  minute  upon  the  other,  according  to  her  usual 
mode,  poor  Fanchon,  doubtless  in  a  paroxysm  of  thirst,  had  fairly 
jumped  out  of  the  phaeton,  giving  to  the  whole  vehicle  such  a 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  193 

jolt  as  her  weight  hardly  seemed  capable  of  producing.  Then 
and  there  I  suspected  went  the  stick  ;  carried  ofl"  by  the  slow 
current,  until  it  became  entangled  by  the  sedges  on  the  banks,  or 
sank  in  one  of  the  deep  pools  not  unfrequent  in  the  stream.  So 
I  gave  up  my  poor  old  friend  as  drowned  beyond  all  hope  of  re- 
suscitation, and  tried  to  comfort  my  little  damsel  by  setting  her  a 
very  creditable  example  of  resignation. 

It  was  hardly  possible  to  be  quite  unhappy  in  a  scene  of  so 
much  healthy  stir  and  bustle  as  this  usually  quiet  lane  exhibited. 

My  friends  the  gipsys  had  no  less  than  three  camps  with  fires 
glimmering  under  the  hedge,  looking  beautiful  in  the  dark  shadow, 
as  fire  always  does,  or  sending  up  wreaths  of  curling  smoke  among 
the  trees,  a  thin  blue  vapor  more  beautiful  still.  There  they 
were  in  every  picturesque  form  of  work  or  idleness,  making  sauce- 
pans, weaving  baskets,  lying  on  the  grass  :  three  camps  at  small 
but  not  unfriendly  distance,  with  one  movable  house,  a  gray  horse, 
and  two  donkeys. 

Then  the  wheat-carrying,  threatened  yesterday,  was  in  full 
activity  to-day  ;  and  wagons,  some  loaded,  some  empty,  passed 
up  and  down  the  lane,  escorted  by  stalwart  carters  and  sliouting 
boys.  Reapers,  too,  were  there  in  abundance  passing  to  and  fro, 
and  troops  of  children  leasing  in  the  cleared  fields,  and  following 
the  wagons  along  the  lane.  Most  of  these  good  people  had  heard 
of  oar  loss  ;  and  questioned  my  little  damsel  as  to  its  recovery. 
Our  friends  the  gipsys  were  particularly  interested  in  the  subject ; 
and  there  was  one  black-haired  urchin,  the  laziest  of  the  tribe,  a 
musical  genius  whom  I  had  never  seen  before  without  a  fiddle  in 
his  hands,  but  whom  we  now  found,  by  way  of  variety,  twanging 
a  jewsharp,  who  intermitted  his  melody  to  affirm  with  so  mucli 
assurance  that  he  had  passed  his  whole  day  in  the  search,  that  it 
was  utterly  impossible  not  to  give  him  sixpence. 

Well  !  we  at  last  sat  down  on  our  old  turf  seats,  not  far  from 
the  entrance  of  a  field  where  an  accident  had  evidently  taken 
place  ;  a  loaded  wagon  must  have  knocked  against  the  gale,  and 
spilt  some  of  its  topmost  sheaves.  The  sheaves  were  taken  away, 
but  the  place  was  strewed  with  relics  of  the  upset,  and  a  little 
harvest  of  the  long  yellow  straw  and  the  rich  brown  ears  re- 
mained to  tempt  the  gleaners  ;  and  as  we  were  talking  over  this 
mischance,  and  our  own,  and  I  was  detailing  my  reasons  for 
believing  that  my  poor  stick  had  foiunl  a  watery  grave,  we  became 

1 


I9i  KECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

aware  of  two  little  pirls,  who  stole  timidly  and  quietly  up  to  the 
place,  and  began  gladly  and  thankfully  to  pick  up  the  scattered 
corn. 

Poor  little  things,  we  knew  them  well  I  we  had  known  their 
father,  dead  of  consumption  scarcely  a  month  ago  ;  and  affecting 
it  was  to  see  these  poor  children,  delicate  girls  of  seven  and  five 
years  old,  already  at  work  to  help  their  widowed  mother,  and  re- 
joicing over  the  discovery  of  these  few  ears  of  fallen  wheat,  as  if 
it  were  the  gold  mines  of  California.  A  drove  of  pigs  was  loom- 
ing in  the  distance  ;  and  my  little  damsel  flung  down  her  work, 
and  sprang  up  at  once  to  help  the  poor  children.  She  has  a  taste 
for  helping  people,  has  my  little  maid,  and  puts  her  whole  heart 
and  soul  into  such  kindnesses.  It  was  worth  something  to  see 
how  she  pounced  upon  every  straggling  straw,  clearing  away  all 
round  the  outside,  and  leaving  the  space  within  for  the  little  girls. 
She  even  hinted  to  me  that  my  new  stick  would  be  an  efficient 
weapon  against  the  pigs  ;  and  I  might  have  found  myself  en- 
gaged in  another  combat,  but  that  the  ground  was  cleared  before 
the  drove  came  near. 

Pleasant  it  was  to  see  her  zealous  activity,  and  the  joy  and  sur- 
prise of  the  little  creatures,  who,  weak,  timid  and  lonely,  had  till 
then  only  collected  about  a  dozen  ears,  when  they  found  them- 
selves loaded  with  more  than  they  could  carry.  Their  faded 
frocks, — not  mourning  frocks,  to  wear  black  every  day  for  a  father 
is  too  great  a  luxury  for  the  poor, — their  frocks  were  by  her  con- 
trivance pinned  up  about  them,  filled  with  the  golden  wheat-ears, 
and  the  children  went  home  happy.  That  home  had  once  been 
full  of  comfort  and  of  plenty,  for  John  Kemp,  a  gentleman's  ser- 
vant, had  married  the  daughter  of  a  small  farmer,  and  had  set 
up  a  little  trade  as  a  baker  and  shopkeeper.  Civil,  honest,  sober 
and  industrious,  the  world  went  well  with  them  for  a  while,  and 
the  shop  prospered.  But  children  came  many  and  fast,  their 
largest  debtor  died  insolvent,  a  showy  competitor  set  up  next 
door,  and  long  before  John  Kemp  was  attacked  by  the  fatal 
malady  of  England  which  finally  carried  him  ofT,  poverty  had 
knocked  hard  at  his  door.  The  long  illness,  the  death,  the  funeral 
had  still  farther  exhausted  their  small  means,  and  now  little  was 
left,  except  that  which  is  best  of  all,  strong  family  affection,  an 
unstained  name,  an  humble  reliance  upon  Providence,  and  those 
habits  of  virtuous  industrj'  and  courage  to  take  the  world  as  it  is, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  195 

which  seldom  fail  to  win  an  honest  living.  The  mother  and  the 
elder  brother  undertook  the  baking  and  the  shop,  the  eldest 
daughter  carried  round  the  bread,  the  two  next  brothers  were 
working  in  the  fields,  and  the  youngest  of  all  we  have  seen  in 
their  efforts  to  contribute  to  the  general  support.  Well !  it  is  a 
hard  trial,  but  it  is  a  good  education,  an  education  that  can 
hardly  fail  to  come  to  good.  Many  a  rich  mother  might  be 
proud  of  the  two  gleaners  that  we  have  seen  this  afternoon.  They 
so  pleased  and  so  thankful  to  carry  their  poor  store  to  that  poor 
home,  they  carried  thither  better  things  than  wheat. 

In  the  meanwhile  where,  amid  all  this  harvest  work,  is  the 
"Arcadia?"  Between  asking  questions  and  answering  them, 
listening  to  condolences  and  thanking  the  condolers,  talking  to 
leasers  and  leasing  ourselves,  the  afternoon  has  slipped  away  with 
little  thought  of  the  good  knight,  Sir  Philip  Sydney.  The  sun, 
which  hardly  showed  his  bright  face  until  we  reached  the  lane, 
is  now  setting  in  his  glory,  and  we  must  wind  our  way  to  the 
avenue-gate,  or  we  may  chance  to  have  a  hue  and  cry  sent  forth 
about  us  as  lost  ourselves.     So  home  we  came. 

About  ten  o'clock,  after  some  riffling  of  the  latch,  a  pattering 
of  childish  feet,  and  an  eager  consultation  of  childish  voices,  the 
front  gate  was  tremblingly  opened,  and  after  a  short  pause  an- 
other little  sound  of  unassured  footsteps,  and  another  brief  dia- 
logue, a  low  knock  was  heard  at  the  hall  door  ;  then  the  little 
feet  advanced  into  the  house,  and  the  little  tongues  gained  cour- 
age to  tell  their  good  news.  Mary  Kemp  and  her  brother  Tom 
had  brought  back  the  lost  stick. 

It  appeared  that  the  child  had  overheard  my  suspicion,  that 
the  missing  wand  had  been  dropped  in  the  brook  during  Fan- 
chon's  immersion,  and  had  confided  the  story  to  her  brother  Tom 
as  soon  as  he  returned  from  his  labors  in  the  harvest  field.  Tom, 
a  bold  urchin  of  ten  years  old,  happened  to  be  one  of  those  boys 
who  may  be  properly  called  amphibious  ;  pools,  puddles,  ponds, 
seemed  to  be  his  natural  element,  and  paddling  in  the  brook  his 
prime  enjoyment.  Before  he  left  off'  his  petticoats,  he  haunted 
the  water-side,  angling  with  a  bit  of  string  tied  on  a  willow-rod, 
and  a  crooked  pin  for  a  hook,  and,  what  is  more  wonderful,  con- 
triving to  catch  with  that  artificial  contrivance  such  small  fry, 
roach  and  dace  and  minnows,  as  the  stream  afforded.  Tom 
knew  every  inch  of  the  brook,  and,  charmed  at  the  very  sound, 


190  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

forgot  liis  loiiji  days  work,  and  set  forth  on  the  search  witliout 
even  stoppiiifr  to  cat  his  supper.  His  little  sister  followed  him 
to  the  meadows,  and  just  where  the  winding  rivulet  takes  a  bold 
sweep  round  a  woody  cape  of  rich  pasture,  where  the  willows 
and  the  alders  are  mixed  with  tall  bulrushes,  thither  the  slow 
current  had  carried  it,  and  there  it  stuck,  caught  between  two 
stalks  of  the  seeded  meadow-sweet,  and  still  farther  entangled  by 
the  leaves  of  the  water-lily,  a  part  of  whose  long  slimy  stalk 
glistening  in  the  moonlight  remained  twisted  around  the  ebony 
knob,  a  token  of  its  involuntary  bath,  its  peril  and  its  escape.  I 
do  not  know  whether  the  poor  children,  my  little  damsel  or  I 
were  most  rejoiced  at  the  conclusion  of  the  adventui'e. 

But  what  room  has  it  left  for  Sir  Philip  ? 

Alas  I  that  bravest  and  most  chivalrous  of  poets,  that  younger, 
gentler,  more  lettered  Bayard,  our  knight,  without  fear  and 
without  reproach,  is  fated,  in  the  person  of  his  famous  pastoral,  at 
least  to  be  "lightlied"  (if  I  may  borrow  a  word  from  a  fine  old 
ballad)  by  those  most  bound  to  do  him  honor.  It  can  not  be  much 
less  than  fifty  years  ago  that  I  heard  the  following  terrible  anec- 
dote told  quite  innocently,  without  any  perception  of  the  reproach 
that  it  involved. 

A  governess  at  Wilton  House,  happening  to  read  the  "  Arca- 
dia," had  discovered  between  two  of  the  leaves  folded  in  paper, 
as  yellow  from  age  as  the  printed  pages  between  which  it  re- 
posed, a  lock  of  hair,  and  on  the  envelope,  inclosing  the  lock, 
was  written  in  Sir  Philip  Sydney's  well-known  autograph,  an 
inscription  purporting  that  the  hair  was  that  of  her  gracious 
Majesty  Q,ueen  Elizabeth.  None  of  the  family  had  ever  heard 
of  the  treasure.  So  this  identical  volume,  not  only  dedicated  to 
his  beloved  sister  but  entitled  by  himself,  "  The  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke's Arcadia,"*  had  remained  for  two  centuries  in  the  library 
of  her  descendants,  without  any  one  of  them  ever  taking  the 
trouble  to  open  the  book  !  The  governess  only — no  Sydney,  no 
Herbert — had  taste  enough  or  curiosity  enough  to  take  down  the 
prose  poem.      I  have  not  the  honor  of  knowing  the  present  mas- 

*  Others,  too,  have  loved  the  "  Arcadia."  always  the  delight  of  poets. 
Happening  to  look  into  that  neglected  but  interesting  book,  '•  The  Life  of 
Hayley,"  I  see  that,  during  a  tedious  recovery  from  a  severe  illness  in  his 
childhood,  his  chief  amusement  was  derived  from  listening  to  his  mother 
as  she  read  to  him  this  famous  Pastoral. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  197 

ter  of  Wilton,  but,  judging  by  reputation,  I  do  not  think  that  such 
a  neglect  could  happen  now. 

After  all,  the  "Arcadia"  is  one  of  those  books  -which  may  be 
best  appreciated  by  specimens.  This  description  of  scenery,  for 
instance  : 

"  There  were  hills  which  garnished  their  proud  heights  with 
stately  trees ;  humble  valleys  whose  base  estate  seemed  com- 
forted with  the  refreshing  of  silver  rivers  ;  meadows  enameled, 
with  all  sorts  of  eye-pleasing  flowers  ;  thickets  which  being  lined 
with  most  pleasant  shade  were  witnessed  so  to  by  the  cheerful 
disposition  of  many  well-tuned  birds  ;  each  pasture  stored  with 
sheep  feeding  with  sober  security  ;  while  the  pretty  lambs  with 
bleating  oratory,  craved  the  dam's  comfort  ;  here  a  shepherd's 
boy  piping  as  though  he  should  never  be  old  ;  there  a  young 
shepherdess  knitting  and  withal  singing,  and  it  seemed  that  her 
voice  comforted  her  hands  to  work,  and  her  hands  kept  time  to 
her  voice-music." 

The  account  of  a  stag-hunt  is  even  more  characteristic.  It 
abounds  in  the  faults  as  well  as  the  beauties  of  the  author. 

"  Then  went  they  together  abroad,  the  good  Kalander  enter- 
taining theni  with  pleasant  discoursing — how  well  he  loved  the 
sport  of  hunting  when  he  was  a  young  man,  how  much  in  the 
comparison  thereof  he  disdained  all  chamber  delights,  that  the 
sun  (how  great  a  journey  soever  he  had  to  make)  could  never 
prevent  him  with  earliness,  nor  the  moon,  with  her  sober  counte- 
nance, dissuade  him  from  watching  till  midnight  for  the  deer's 
feeding.  0,  said  he,  you  will  never  live  to  my  age  without  you 
keep  yourself  in  breath  with  exercise  and  in  heart  with  joyfulness  ; 
too  much  thinking  doth  consume  the  spirits  ;  and  oft  it  falls 
out,  that,  while  one  thinks  too  much  of  his  doing,  he  leaves  to  do 
the  effect  of  his  thinking.  Then  spared  he  not  to  remember  how 
much  Arcadia  was  changed  since  his  youth  ;  activity  and  good- 
lellowship  being  nothing  in  the  price  it  was  then  held  in  ;  but, 
according  to  the  nature  of  the  old-growing  world,  still  worse  and 
worse.  Then  would  he  tell  them  stories  of  such  gallantry  as  he 
had  known  ;  and  so  with  pleasant  company  beguiled  the  time's 
haste,  and  shortened  the  way's  length,  till  they  came  to  the  side 
of  the  wood  where  the  hounds  were  in  couples  staying  their  coming, 
but  with  a  whining  accent  craving  liberty  ;  many  of  them  in  color 
and  marks  so  resembling  that  it  showed  they  were  of  one  kind. 


198  KECOL  LECTIONS    OF 

The  huntsmen,  handsomely  attired  in  their  green  liveries,  as 
though  they  were  children  of  summer,  with  staves  in  their  hands, 
to  beat  the  guiltless  earth  when  the  hounds  were  at  lault ;  and 
with  horns  about  their  necks  to  sound  an  alarm  upon  a  silly  fu- 
gitive ;  the  hounds  were  straight  uncoupled,  and  ere  long  the  stag 
thought  it  better  to  trust  to  the  nimbleness  of  his  feet,  than  to  the 
slender  fortification  of  his  lodging  ;  but  even  his  feet  betrayed 
him,  lor  howsoever  they  went,  they  themselves  uttered  them- 
selves to  the  scent  of  their  enemies,  who  one  taking  it  of  another, 
and  sometimes  believing  the  wind's  advertisements,  sometimes  the 
view  of  their  faithful  counselors,  the  huntsmen,  with  open  months 
then  denounced  war,  when  the  war  was  already  begun.  Their 
cry  being  composed  of  so  well-sorted  mouths,  that  any  man  would 
perceive  therein  some  kind  of  proportion,  but  the  skillful  woodmen 
did  find  a  music.  Then  delight  and  a  variety  of  opinion  drew 
the  horsemen  sundry  ways,  yet  cheering  their  hounds  with  voice 
and  horn,  kept  still  as  it  were  together.  The  wood  seemed  to  con- 
spire with  them  against  his  own  citizens,  dispersing  their  noise 
through  all  his  quarters  ;  and  even  the  nymph  Echo  left  to  be- 
wail the  loss  of  Narcissus,  and  became  a  hunter.  But  the  stag 
was  in  the  end  so  hotly  pursued,  that  leaving  his  flight,  he  was 
driven  to  make  courage  of  despair  ;  and  so  turning  his  head,  made 
the  hounds  with  change  of  speech  to  testify  that  he  was  at  bay ; 
as  if  from  hot  pursuit  of  their  enemy  they  were  suddenly  come  to 
a  parley." 

So  far.  Sir  Philip.  Here  is  another  bit  of  pastoral  scenery  from 
the  hand  of  that  gentle  brother  of  the  angle,  Master  Izaak  Wal- 
ton, whose  portrait  of  a  country  milkmaid  may  vie  with  "  the 
shepherd's  boy  piping  as  though  he  should  never  grow  old,"  of 
the  '"Arcadia."  Piscator  and  his  scholar,  Venator,  are  returning 
to  their  inn,  after  a  day's  angling.     Venator  says  : 

Ve?i.  A  match,  good  master  :  let's  go  to  that  house,  for  the 
linen  looks  white,  and  smells  of  lavender.  Let's  be  going,  good 
master,  for  I  am  hungry  again  with  fishing. 

Fisc.  Nay,  stay  a  little,  good  scholar.  I  caught  my  last  trout 
with  a  worm,  now  I  will  put  on  a  minnow,  and  try  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  about  yonder  tree  for  another,  and  so  walk  toward  our 
lodging.  Look  you,  scholar,  thereabout  we  shall  have  a  bite 
presently  or  not  at  all.  Have  with  you,  Sir  I  0,  my  word  I  have 
hold  of  him.     Oh  it  is  a  great  lubber-headed  chubb  ;  come,  hang 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  199 

him  upon  that  willow  twig,  and  let  us  be  going.  But  turn  out 
of  the  way  a  little,  good  scholar,  toward  yonder  high  honeysuckle 
hedge  ;  there  we'll  sit  and  sing,  while  this  shower  falls  so  gently 
upon  the  teeming  earth,  and  gives  yet  a  sweeter  smell  to  the 
lovely  flowers  that  adorn  these  verdant  meadows. 

Look,  under  that  broad  beech-tree,  I  sat  down  when  I  was  last 
here  a  fishing,  and  the  birds  in  the  adjoining  grove  seemed  to  have 
a  friendly  contention  with  an  echo,  whose  dead  voice  seemed  to 
live  in  a  hollow  tree,  near  to  the  brow  of  that  primrose  hill  :  there 
I  sat  viewing  the  silver  streams  glide  silently  toward  their  cen- 
ter, the  tempestuous  sea,  yet  sometimes  opposed  by  ragged  roots 
and  pebble-stones,  which  broke  their  waves,  and  turned  them  into 
foam :  and  sometimes  I  beguiled  time  by  viewing  the  harmless 
lambs,  some  leaping  securely  in  the  cool  shade,  while  others 
sported  themselves  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  saw  others  craving 
comfort  from  the  swollen  udders  of  their  bleating  dams.  As  I 
thus  sat,  these  and  other  sights  had  so  fully  possessed  my  soul 
with  content,  that  I  thought,  as  the  poet  has  happily  expressed  it : 

"I  was  for  that  time  lifted  above  earth, 
And  possessed  joys  not  promised  at  my  birth." 

As  I  left  this  place,  and  entered  the  next  field,  a  second  pleas- 
ure entertained  me.  It  was  a  handsome  milkmaid,  that  had  not 
yet  attained  so  much  age  and  wisdom  as  to  load  her  mind  with 
any  fears  of  many  things  that  will  never  be,  as  too  many  men 
too  often  do  ;  but  she  cast  away  all  care,  and  sang  like  a  night- 
ingale :  her  voice  was  good,  and  the  ditty  fitted  for  it.  It  was 
that  smooth  song,  which  was  made  by  Kit  Marlowe,  now  at  least 
fifty  years  ago  ;  and  the  milkmaid's  mother  sung  an  answer  to 
it,  which  was  made  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  in  my  younger  days. 

They  were  old-fashioned  poetry,  but  choicely  good,  I  think 
much  better  than  the  strong  lines  that  are  now  in  fashion  in  this 
critical  age.  Look  yonder  I  On  my  word,  yonder  they  both  be 
a  milking  again.  I  will  give  her  the  chubb,  and  persuade  them 
to  sing  those  two  songs  to  us. 

God  speed  you,  good  woman  1  I  have  been  a  fishing,  and  am 
going  to  Bleak  Hall  to  my  bed,  and  having  caught  more  fish  than 
will  sup  myself  and  my  friend,  I  will  bestow  this  upon  you  and 
your  daughter,  for  I  use  to  sell  none. 

Milk-woman.  Marry,  God  requite  you,  Sir,  and  we'll  eat  it 


200  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

cheerfully  ;  and  if  you  come  this  way  a  fishing  two  months  hence, 
a  <jraco  of  liod  111  cive  you  a  syllabub  of  new  verjuice  in  a  new- 
made  haycock  lor  it  ;  and  my  Maudlin  shall  sing  you  one  of  her 
best  ballads,  for  she  and  I  both  love  all  anglers,  they  be  such 
honest,  civil,  quiet  men  ;  in  the  mean  time,  will  you  drink  a 
draught  of  red  cow's  milk  ?     You  shall  have  it  freely  ! 

i'/sc.  No,  I  thank  you  ;  but  I  pray  you  do  us  a  courtesy  that 
shall  stand  you  and  your  daughter  in  nothing,  and  yet  we  will 
think  ourselves  still  something  in  your  debt.  It  is  but  to  sing  us 
a  song  that  was  sung  by  your  daughter  when  I  last  passed  over 
this  meadow,  eight  or  nine  days  since. 

Milk-iroman.  What  song  was  it,  I  pray  ?  Was  it  "  Come 
shepherds  deck  your  herds?"  or  "As  at  noon  Dulcina  rested?" 
or  "  Phillida  flouts  me  ?"  or  "  Chevy  Chase  ?"  or  "  Johnny 
Armstrong  ?"  or  "  Troy  Town  ?" 

Pise.  No,  it  is  none  of  those.  It  is  a  song  that  your  daughter 
sang  the  first  part  and  you  sang  the  answer  to  it. 

Milk-ivoiiian.  0,  I  know  it  now.  I  learned  the  first  part  in 
my  golden  age,  when  I  was  about  the  age  of  my  poor  daughter  ; 
and  the  latter  part,  which  indeed  fits  me  best  now,  but  two  or 
three  years  ago,  when  the  cares  of  the  world  began  to  take  hold 
of  me.  But  you  shall,  God  willing,  hear  them  both,  and  sung  as 
well  as  we  can,  for  we  both  love  anglers.  Come,  Maudlin,  sing 
the  first  part  to  the  gentlemen  with  a  merry  heart,  and  I'll  sing 
the  second  when  you  have  done. 

THE  MILKMAID'S  SONG. 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  valleys,  groves,  or  hills,  or  field, 
Or  woods  and  stecpy  mountains  yield- 
Where  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  our  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  bods  of  roses, 
And  then  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  o'er  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  201 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull, 
Slippers  lined  choicely  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds. 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs; 
Aud  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move. 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

Thy  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat, 
As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat. 
Shall  on  an  ivory  table  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 

The  shepherd-swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  Maj^-morning : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

Ven.  Trust  me,  master,  it  is  a  choice  song,  and  sweetly  sung 
by  honest  Maudlin.  I  now  see  it  was  not  without  cause  our 
good  Ciueen  Elizabeth  did  so  often  wish  herself  a  milkmaid  all 
the  month  of  May,  because  they  are  not  troubled  with  fears  and 
cares,  but  sing  sweetly  all  the  day  and  sleep  securely  all  the 
night,  and  without  doubt  honest,  innocent,  pretty  Maudlin  does 
so.  I'll  bestow  Sir  Thomas  Overbury's  rnilkniaid's  wish  upon 
her,  "That  she  may  die  in  the  spring,  and  being  dead  may  have 
good  store  of  flowers  stuck  round  about  her  winding-sheet." 

THE  MILKMAID'S  MOTHER'S  ANSWER. 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young. 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue. 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold. 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold ; 
Then  Philomel  becometh  dumb, 
And  age  complains  of  care  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  Winter  reckoning  yields; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall 
Is  fancy's  Si)ring  but  sorrow's  fall. 


202  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Thy  gowns,  tliy  shoi-s,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  tliy  kirtlo  and  thy  posies 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten, 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Tliy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds. 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

What  should  we  talk  of  dainties  then, 
Of  better  meat  than's  fit  for  men  1 
These  are  but  vain  ;  that's  only  good 
Which  God  hath  blest  and  sent  for  food. 

But  could  youth  last  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need, 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

Mother.     AA'ell,  1  have  done  my  song." 

And  a  delicious  song  it  is.  Certainly  it  was  not  among  the 
least  of  the  many  excellencies  of  Izaak  Walton's  charming  book, 
tliat  he  helped  to  render  popular  so  many  pure  and  beautiful 
lyrics.  Marlowe's  poem,  indeed,  could  never  die,  for  it  had  been 
quoted  by  Shakspeare  ;  but  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  reply  is  still 
finer. 

We  wonder,  in  reading  the  milkwoman's  list  of  songs  and 
ballads,  which  looks  like  a  table  of  contents  to  one  of  the  books 
into  which  Bishop  Percy  divided  his  volumes,  whether  the  coun- 
try lasses  of  those  days,  southern  lasses  too,  for  the  colloquy  passes 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Lea,  did  actually  sing  border  war-songs 
like  "  Chevy  Chase,"  or  classical  legends  like  "  Troy  Town.''  I 
fear  me  that  their  more  lettered  successors  would  select  very  in- 
i'erior  specimens  of  lyrical  composition. 

I  must  add  one  more  extract,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  "  holy 
Mr.  Herbert's"  four  stanzas. 

"  And  now,  scholar,  my  direction  for  fly-fishing  is  ended  with 
this  shower,  for  it  has  done  raining  :  and  now  look  about  you 
and  see  how  pleasantly  that  meadow  looks  ;  nay,  and  the  earth 
smells  as  sweetly  too.  Come,  let  me  tell  you  what  holy  Mr. 
Herbert  says  of  such  days  and  flowers  as  these  ;  and  then  we 
will  thank  God  that  we  enjoy  them,  and  walk  to  the  river  and 
sit  down  quietly  and  try  to  catch  the  other  brace  of  trouts  : 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  203 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky ; 
Sweet  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night — 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave. 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  ej'e ; 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  the  grave — 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  bos  where  sweets  compacted  lie ; 
My  music  shows  you  have  your  closes — 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul. 
Like  seasoned  timber  never  gives  ; 
But  when  the  whole  world  turns  to  coal — 
Then  chiefly  lives." 

Besides  "  The  Complete  Angler,"  Izaak  Walton  has  left  us  a 
volume  containing  four  or  five  lives  of  eminent  men  quite  as  fine 
as  that  great  Pastoral,  although  in  a  very  different  way.  His 
life  of  Dr.  Donne,  the  satirist  and  theologian,  contains  an  account 
of  a  vision  (the  apparition  of  a  beloved  wife  in  England  passing 
before  the  waking  eyes  of  her  husband  in  Paris)  which  both  for 
the  clearness  of  the  narration  and  the  undoubted  authenticity  of 
the  event,  is  among  the  most  interesting  that  is  to  be  found  in 
the  long  catalogue  of  supernatural  visitations. 


204  KKCOL  LECTIONS    OF 


XVL 

SPANISH    BALLADS. 

Every  one  of  any  imagination,  every  one  at  all  addicted  to 
that  grand  art  of  dreaming  with  the  eyes  open,  and  building 
Avhat  are  called  castles  in  the  air,  has,  I  suppose,  his  own  pecu- 
liar realm  of  dream-land,  his  own  chosen  country,  his  own  favor- 
ite period  ;  and  from  my  earliest  hour  of  fanciful  idleness,  down 
to  this  present  moment,  Spain,  as  it  existed  when  the  Moors  ruled 
over  the  fail  est  part  of  that  fair  country,  has  been  mine.  It  is 
probable  that  I  am  not  singular  in  my  choice.  Our  vivacious 
neighbors,  the  Gauls,  when  they  call  their  air-castles  chateaux  en 
Espagne,  give  some  token  of  their  preference  for  that  romantic 
locality,  and  the  finest  creations  of  Italian  poetry,  although  tol- 
erably anomalous  as  to  place  and  time,  may  yet  as  a  whole  be  re- 
ferred to  the  same  period  and  the  same  country. 

My  fancy  for  the  Moors,  however,  long  preceded  my  acquaint- 
ance with  Ariosto.  What  gave  rise  to  it  I  can  not  tell.  Who 
can  analyze  or  put  a  date  to  any  thing  so  impalpable  I  as  well 
try  to  grasp  a  rainbow.  Perhaps  it  arose  from  the  melodious 
stanzas  of  "  Almanzor  and  Zayda,"  the  favorite  of  my  childhood  ; 
perhaps  from  the  ballads  in  "  Don  Cluixote,"  or  from  Don  Quix- 
ote himself,  the  darling  of  my  youth  ;  perhaps  from  an  old  folio 
translation  of  Mariana's  history,  a  book  which  I  devoured  at  fif- 
teen as  girls  of  fifteen  read  romances,  finding  the  truth,  if  truth 
it  were,  fully  as  amusing  as  fiction  ;  perhaps  from  the  countless 
English  comedies  founded  on  Spanish  subjects ;  perhaps  from 
Cornei lie's  Cid  ;  perhaps  from  Le  Sage's  Gil  Bias  ;  perhaps  from 
Mozart's  Don  Juan  !  Who  can  tell  from  what  plant  came  the 
seed,  or  what  wind  wafted  it  ?  Certain  it  is  that  at  eighteen  the 
fancy  was  full  blown,  and  that  ever  since  it  has  been  fed  by  count- 
less hands  and  nurtured  by  innumerable  streams.     Lord  Holland's 


A    LITEliAKY    LIFE.  205 

charming  book  on  Lope  de  Vega,  Murphy's  magnificent  work  on 
Granada,  Mr.  Prescott's  Spanish  Histories,  Washington  Irving's 
graphic  Chronicles,  a  host  of  French  and  Enghsh  travelers  in 
Spain,  a  host  of  Spanish  travelers  in  South  America,  the  popular 
works  of  Ford  and  Borrow,  of  Dumas  and  Scribe,  Southey's  poet- 
ry, Sir  Walter's  prose — all  conspired  to  keep  alive  the  fancy. 

But  beyond  a  doubt,  the  works  that  have  most  fed  the  flame, 
have  been  Mr.  Lockhart's  spirited  volume  of  Spanish  ballads,  to 
which  the  art  of  the  modern  translator  has  given  the  charm  of 
the  vigorous  old  poets  ;  and  Mr.  Ticknor's  "  History  of  Spanish 
Literature,"  that  rarest  of  all  works  in  these  days,  when  litera- 
ture, like  every  thing  else,  goes  at  railway  speed,  a  conscientious 
book,  which  being  the  labor  of  a  lifetime,  will  remain  a  standard 
authority  for  many  generations. 

In  one  of  his  recently  published  letters,  Southey,  himself  a  pow- 
erful though  somewhat  fantastic  ballad  writer,  denies  all  merit 
to  the  Spanish  ballads,  accusing  them  of  sameness,  of  want  of 
action  and  of  want  of  interest.  To  this  there  needs  but  Mr. 
Lockhart's  book  to  reply ;  even  if  the  transmittal  of  so  long  a  se- 
ries of  poems  floating  upon  the  memories  and  living  in  the  hearts 
of  a  whole  people  were  not  answer  enough  :  even  if  the  very  ma- 
terials and  accessories  of  these  ballads,  the  felicity  of  climate,  the 
mixture  of  race,  of  Moor  and  Christian,  of  vailed  beauty  and 
armed  knight,  of  fountained  garden  and  pillared  court,  of  gigantic 
cathedral  and  fantastic  mosque,  of  mountains  crowned  with  chest- 
nut and  cork-tree,  and  clothed  with  cistus  and  lavender;  of 
streams  winding  through  tufted  oleanders,  amid  vineyards,  orange- 
groves  and  olive-grounds,  of  the  rich  halls  of  the  Alhambra,  of 
the  lordly  towers  of  Seville,  of  shrine  and  abbey,  of  pilgrim  and 
procession,  of  bull-fight  and  tournament,  of  love  and  of  battle  ;  of 
princely  paladins  and  learned  caliphs,  and  still  more  learned 
Jews  I  Why  this  is  the  very  stuff"  of  which  poetry  is  made,  and 
strange  indeed  it  would  have  been,  if  born  among  such  beauty, 
and  happy  in  a  language  at  once  stately,  flowing  and  harmoniou.s, 
the  great  old  minstrels,  who,  like  their  compeers  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  the  equally  great  old  architects,  have  bequeathed  to  us 
their  works  and  not  their  names,  had  failed  to  find  it. 

The  first  specimen  that  I  shall  select  is  the  ballad  which  Don 
duixote  and  Sancho  Panza,  when  at  Toboso,  overheard  a  peasant 
singing  as  he  was  going  to  liis  work  at  daybreak. 


206  KE  COL  LECTIONS    OF 


THE   ADMIRAL   GUARINOS. 

The  day  of  Roncesvallos  was  a  dismal  day  for  yoii, 

Ye  men  of  France,  for  there  the  lance  of  King  Charles  was  broke  in  two. 

Ye  well  may  curse  tliat  rueful  tiekl,  for  many  a  noble  peer 

In  fray  or  figlit  the  dust  did  bite  beneath  Bernardo's  spear. 

Then  captured  was  Guarinos,  King  Charles's  Admiral, 
Seven  Moorish  kings  surrounded  him,  and  seized  him  for  their  thrall ; 
Seven  times  when  all  the  chase  was  o'er,  for  Guarinos  lots  they  cast ; 
Seven  times  Marlotes  won  the  throw,  and  the  knight  was  his  at  last. 

Much  joy  had  then  Marlotes,  and  his  captive  much  did  prize, 
Above  all  the  wealth  of  Araby,  he  was  precious  in  his  eyes. 
Within  his  tent  at  evening  he  made  the  best  of  cheer. 
And  thus,  the  banquet  done,  he  spake  unto  his  prisoner. 

"Now,  for  the  sake  of  Allah,  Lord  Admiral  Guarinos, 
Be  thou  a  Moslem,  and  much  love  shall  ever  rest  between  us. 
Two  daughters  have  I ! — all  the  day  shall  one  thy  handmaid  be — 
The  other  (and  the  fairest  far)  by  night  shall  cherish  thee. 

"  The  one  shall  be  thy  waiting-maid,  thy  weary  feet  to  lave. 
To  scatter  perfumes  on  thy  head,  and  fetch  thee  garments  brave : 
The  other — she  the  pretty  one — shall  deck  her  bridal  bower. 
And  my  field  and  my  city  they  both  shall  be  her  dower. 

"  If  more  thou  wishest,  more  I'll  give.     Speak  boldly  what  thy  thought  is.* 

Thus  earnestly  and  kindly  to  Guarinos  said  Marlotes  : 

But  not  a  minute  did  he  take  to  ponder  or  to  pause, 

Thus  clear  and  quick  the  answer  of  the  Christian  Captain  was. 

"  NovF,  God  forbid !  Marlotes,  and  Mary  his  dear  mother, 
That  I  should  leave  the  faith  of  Christ  and  bind  me  to  another. 
For  women — I've  one  wife  in  France,  and  I'll  wed  no  more  in  Spain, 
I  change  not  faith,  I  break  not  vow,  for  courtesy  or  gain." 

Wroth  waxed  King  Marlotes,  when  thus  he  heard  him  say, 
And  all  for  ire  commanded,  he  should  be  led  away ; 
Away  unto  the  dungeon-keep,  beneath  its  vaults  to  lie. 
With  fetters  bound  in  darkness  deep,  far  off  from  sun  and  sky. 

With  iron  bands  they  bound  his  hands ;  that  sore  unworthy  plight 
Might  well  express  his  helplessness,  doomed  never  more  to  fight. 
Again,  from  cincture  down  to  knee,  long  bolts  of  iron  he  bore, 
Which  signified  the  knight  should  ride  on  charger  never  more. 

Three  times  alone  in  all  the  year  it  is  the  captive's  doom 

To  see  God's  daylight  bright  and  clear,  instead  of  dungeon  gloom ; 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  207 

Three  times  alone  they  bring  him  out,  like  Samson  long  ago, 
Before  the  Moorish  rabble-rout  to  be  a  sport  and  show. 

On  these  high  feasts  they  bring  him  forth,  a  spectacle  to  be — 

The  Feast  of  Pasque  and  the  great  day  of  the  Nativity ; 

And  on  that  morn,  more  solemn  yet,  when  the  maidens  strip  the  bowers, 

And  gladden  mosque  and  minaret  with  the  first  fruits  of  the  flowers. 

Days  come  and  go  of  gloom  and  show.     Seven  years  are  past  and  gone. 
And  now  doth  fall  the  festival  of  the  holy  Baptist  John ; 
Christian  and  Moslem  tilts  and  jousts,  to  give  it  honor  due, 
And  rushes  on  the  paths  to  spread,  they  force  the  sulky  Jew. 

Marlotes  in  his  joy  and  pride  a  target  high  doth  rear. 

Below  the  Moorish  knights  must  ride  and  pierce  it  with  the  spear  ; 

But  'tis  so  high  up  in  the  sky,  albeit  much  they  strain. 

No  Moorish  lance  may  fly  so  far,  Marlotes'  prize  to  gain. 

Wroth  waxed  King  Marlotes,  when  he  beheld  them  fail. 

The  whisker  trembled  on  his  lip,  and  his  cheek  for  ire  was  pale. 

The  herald's  proclamation  made,  with  trumpets,  through  the  town, 

"Nor  child  shall  suck,  nor  man  shall  eat,  till  the  mark  be  tumbled  down  !" 

The  cry  of  proclamation  and  the  trumpet's  haughty  sound 

Did  send  an  echo  to  the  vault  where  the  Admiral  was  bound. 

"  Now  help  me,  God  !"  the  captive  cries.     "  What  means  this  cry  so  loud  ■? 

0,  Queen  of  Heaven  !  be  vengeance  given  on  these  thy  haters  proud  ! 

"  Oh  !  is  it  that  some  Paynira  gay  doth  Marlotes'  daughter  wed. 

And  that  they  bear  my  scorned  fair  in  triumph  to  his  bed  1 

Or  is  it  that  the  day  is  come — one  of  the  hateful  three — 

When  they,  with  trumpet,  fife  and  drum,  make  heathen  game  of  me  1" 

These  words  the  jailer  chanced  to  hear,  and  thus  to  him  he  said  : 
"  These  tabours,  lord,  and  trumpets  clear  conduct  no  bride  to  bed ; 
Nor  has  the  feast  come  round  again,  when  he  that  hath  the  right 
Commands  thee  forth,  thou  foe  of  Spain,  to  glad  the  people's  sight. 

"  This  is  the  joyful  morning  of  John  the  Baptist's  day, 

When  Moor  and  Christian  feasts  at  home,  each  in  his  nation's  way ; 

But  now  our  King  commands  that  none  his  banquet  shall  begin, 

Until  some  knight,  by  strength  or  sleight,  the  spearman's  prize  do  win." 

Then  out  and  spoke  Guarinos  :  "  Oh !  soon  each  man  should  feed, 
Were  I  but  mounted  once  again  on  my  own  gallant  steed. 
Oh,  were  I  mounted  as  of  old,  and  harnessed  cai)-a-pie. 
Full  soon  Marlotes'  prize  I'd  hold  whate'er  its  price  may  be. 

'•  Give  me  my  horse,  my  old  gray  horse,  so  be  he  is  not  dead. 

All  gallantly  caparisoned  with  plate  on  breast  and  head ; 


208  K  K C O  L  L  K  C T I O N  S    OF 

Ami  j^is-c  nie  tlie  lance  I  brought  from  France,  and  if  I  win  it  not 
My  life  shall  be  the  forfeiture,  I'll  yield  it  on  the  spot." 

The  jailer  wondered  at  his  words.     Thus  to  the  knight  said  he  : 
'•  Seven  weary  years  of  chains  and  gloom  have  little  huml>led  theo. 
There's  never  a  man  in  Spain,  I  trow,  the  like  so  well  miglit  bear, 
An'  if  thou  wilt  I  with  thy  vow  will  to  the  King  repair." 

The  jailer  put  his  mantle  on  and  came  unto  the  King, 
lie  found  him  sitting  on  the  throne  within  his  listed  ring; 
Close  to  his  ear  he  planted  him.  and  the  storj'  did  begin, 
How  bold  Guarinos  vaunted  him  the  spearman's  prize  to  win. 

That  were  he  mounted  but  once  more  on  his  own  gallant  gray, 
And  armed  with  the  lance  he  bore  on  the  Roncesvalles  day, 
AVhat  never  Moorish  knight  could  pierce,  he  would  pierce  it  at  a  blow. 
Or  give  with  joy  his  life-blood  fierce  at  Marlotes'  feet  to  flow. 

Much  marveling,  then  said  the  King :  "  Bring  Sir  Guarinos  forth, 
And  in  the  grange  go  seek  ye  for  his  gray  steed  of  worth  ; 
His  arms  are  rusty  on  the  wall,  seven  years  have  gone,  I  judge, 
Since  that  strong  horse  hath  bent  him  to  be  a  common  drudge. 

"  Now  this  will  be  a  sight  indeed  to  see  the  enfeebled  lord 
Essay  to  mount  that  ragged  steed,  and  draw  that  rusty  sword  ; 
And  for  the  vaunting  of  his  phrase  he  well  deserves  to  die : 
So,  jailer,  gird  his  harness  on,  and  bring  your  champion  nigh." 

They  have  girded  on  his  shirt  of  mail,  his  cuisses  well  they've  clasped, 
And  they've  barred  the  helm  on  his  visage  pale,  and  his  hand  the  lance 

hath  grasped ; 
And  they  have  caught  the  old  gray  horse,  the  horse  he  loved  of  yore, 
And  he  stands  pawing  at  the  gate,  caparisoned  once  more. 

■\Vhen  the  knight  came  out  the  Moors  did  shout,  and  loudly  laughed  the 

King, 
For  the  horse  he  pranced  and  capered  and  furiously  did  fling; 
But  Guarinos  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  looked  into  his  face, 
Then  stood  the  old  charger,  like  a  lamb,  with  calm  and  gentle  grace. 

Oh  I  lightly  did  Guarinos  vault  into  the  saddle-tree, 

And  slowly  riding  down  made  halt  before  Marlotes'  knee ; 

Again  the  heathen  laughed  aloud.     "  All  hail,  Sir  Knight !"  quoth  he, 

"Now  do  thy  best,  thou  champion  proud;  thy  blood  I  look  to  see." 

With  that  Guarinos,  lance  in  rest,  against  the  scoffer  rode. 

Pierced  at  one  thrust  his  envious  breast,  and  dov\Ti  his  turban  trode. 

Now  ride,  now  ride,  Guarinos  !  nor  lance  nor  rowel  spare. 

Slay,  slay,  and  gallop  for  thy  life  !     The  land  of  France  lies  there ! 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  209 

The  "old  gray  steed"  plays  no  mean  part  in  the  foregoing 
story  ;  and  of  the  many  ballads  that  celebrate  the  glories  of  the 
Cid,  I  hardly  know  one  more  pleasing  than  that  which  describes 
the  mingled  spirit  and  gentleness  of  his  favorite  hor^e. 

BAVIECA. 

The  King  looked  on  him  kindly,  as  on  a  vassal  true ; 
Then  to  the  King  Ruy  Diaz  spake,  after  reverence  due: 
"  0  King,  the  thing  is  shameful,  that  any  man  beside 
The  liege  lord  of  Castile  himself  should  Bavieca  ride  ; 

"  For  neither  Spain  nor  Araby  could  another  charger  bring 

So  good  as  he,  and  certes  the  best  befits  my  King. 

But  that  you  may  behold  him,  and  know  him  to  the  core, 

I'll  make  him  go  as  he  was  wont,  when  his  nostrils  smelt  the  Moor." 

With  that  the  Cid,  clad  as  he  was  in  mantle  furred  and  wide, 
On  Bavieca  vaulting,  put  the  rowel  in  his  side  ; 
And  up  and  down,  and  round  and  round,  so  fierce  was  his  career, 
Streamed  like  a  pennon  on  the  wind,  Ruy  Bias'  minivere. 

And  all  that  saw  them  praised  them ;  they  lauded  man  and  horse, 
As  matched  well,  and  rivalless  for  gallantry  and  force ; 
Ne'er  had  they  looked  on  horseman  might  to  this  knight  come  near 
Nor  on  other  charger  worthy  of  such  a  cavalier. 

Thus  to  and  fro  a-rushing,  the  fierce  and  furious  steed 
He  snapt  in  twain  his  hither  rein : — "  God  pity  now  the  Cid  ! 
God  pity  Bias!"  said  the  Lords;  but  when  they  looked  again, 
They  saw  Ruy  Bias  ruling  him  with  the  fragment  of  his  rein  ; 
They  saw  him  firmly  ruling,  with  gesture  firm  and  calm. 
Like  a  true  lord  commanding — and  obeyed  as  by  a  lamb. 

And  so  he  led  him  prancing  and  panting  to  the  King ; 
But  "  No !"  said  Don  Alphonso,  "  it  were  a  shameful  thing 
That  peerless  Bavieca  should  ever  be  bestrid 
By  any  mortal  but  Bivar: — Mount,  mount  again,  my  Cid!" 

In  these  two  ballads  there  is  little  mention  of  the  ladies.  But 
two  of  the  most  charming  of  the  Moorish  series  are  devoted  to 
Spain  exclusively.  "  The  following,"  says  Mr.  Lockhart,  "  has 
been  often  imitated  in  Spain  and  Germany."  Its  elegance  could 
scarcely  be  increased  m  any  language. 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  ANDALLa. 

"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa,  lay  the  golden  cushion  down  ; 
Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with  all  the  town. 


210  KKCOM.KCTIOXS    OF 

From  gay  guitar  and  violin  the  silver  notes  are  flowing, 

Ami  tlio  lovely  lute  doth  speak  between  the  trumpet's  lordly  blowing; 

And  banners  briylit  iVoni  luttiee  liyiht  are  waving  everywhere, 

And  tlie  tall,  tall  plume  of  our  cousin's  bridegroom  floats  proudly  in  the  air. 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xaril'a,  lay  the  golden  cusliion  down ; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with  all  the  town. 

"  Arise,  arise,  Xarifa ;  I  see  Andalla's  face  ; 

He  bends  him  to  the  i)eo])le,  with  a  calm  and  princely  grace ; 

Tlirt)ngh  all  the  land  of  Xeres,  and  banks  of  Guadalquiver, 

Rode  fortti  bridegroom  so  brave  as  he,  so  brave  and  lovely,  never. 

Yon  tall  plume  waving  o'er  his  brow,  of  azure  mixed  with  white, 

I  guess  'twas  wreathed  by  Zara,  whom  he  will  wed  to-night. 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa,  lay  the  golden  cushion  down ; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with  all  the  town. 

"  What  aileth  thee,  Xarifa  1  what  makes  thine  eyes  look  down  1 
Why  stay  ye  from  the  window  far,  nor  gaze  with  all  the  town  1 
I've  heard  you  say  on  many  a  day,  and  sure  you  said  the  truth, 
Andalla  rides  without  a  peer  among  all  Granada's  youth ; 
Without  a  peer  he  rideth,  and  yon  milk-white  horse  doth  go 
Beneath  his  stately  master,  with  a  stately  step  and  slow. 
Then  rise,  oh  rise,  Xarifa,  lay  the  golden  cushion  down  ; 
Uuseen  here,  through  the  lattice,  you  may  gaze  with  all  the  town." 

The  Zegri  lady  rose  not,  nor  laid  her  cushion  down  ; 

Nor  came  she  to  the  window  to  gaze  with  all  the  to\vn  ; 

But  though  her  eyes  dwelt  on  her  knee,  in  vain  her  fingers  strove, 

And  though  her  needle  pressed  the  silk,  no  flower  Xarifa  wove. 

One  bonny  rose-bud  she  had  traced  before  the  noise  drew  nigh ; 

That  bonny  bud  a  tear  eflaced,  slow  dropping  from  her  eye. 

"  No,  no,"  she  sighs,  "  bid  me  not  rise,  nor  lay  my  cushion  down. 

To  gaze  upon  Andalla  with  all  the  gazing  town." 

"  Why  rise  ye  not,  Xarifa,  nor  lay  your  cushion  down  1 

Why  gaze  ye  not,  Xarifa,  with  all  the  gazing  town  1 

Hear,  hear  the  trumpet  how  it  swells  !  and  how  the  people  cry  ! 

He  stops  at  Zara's  palace-gate.     Why  sit  ye  still  1     Oh,  why  1" 

— "  At  Zara's  gate  stops  Zara's  mate  ;  in  him  shall  I  discover 

The  dark-eyed  youth  pledged  me  his  truth  with  tears,  and  was  my  lover  1 

I  will  not  rise  with  weary  eyes,  nor  lay  my  cushion  down. 

To  gaze  on  false  Andalla  with  all  the  gazing  town." 

The  next,  still  of  a  Moorish  maiden,  is  even  more  charminfj. 


ZARA'S  EAR-RINGS. 

"  My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  they've  dropped  into  the  well, 
And  what  to  say  to  Mufa,  I  can  not,  can  not  tell." 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  211 

'Tvvas  thus,  Granada's  fountain  by,  spoke  Albuharez'  daughter. 
"  The  well  is  deep ;  far  down  they  lie,  beneath  the  cold  blue  water. 
To  me  did  Mufa  give  them,  when  he  spake  his  sad  farewell ; 
And  what  to  say,  when  he  comes  back,  alas  !  I  can  not  tell. 

"  My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  they  were  pearls  in  silver  set. 
That  when  my  Moor  was  far  away,  I  ne'er  should  him  forget ; 
That  I  ne'er  to  other  tongue  should  list,  nor  smile  on  other's  tale. 
But  remember  he  my  lips  had  kissed,  pure  as  those  ear-rings  pale. 
When  he  comes  back,  and  hears  that  I  have  dropped  them  in  the  well, 
Oh  !  what  will  Mufa  think  of  me,  I  can  not,  can  not  tell ! 

"  My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  he'll  say  they  should  have  been 
Not  of  pearl  and  of  silver,  but  of  gold  and  glittering  sheen, 
Of  jasper  and  of  onyx,  and  of  diamond  shining  clear, 
Changing  to  the  changing  light,  with  radiance  insincere ; 
That  changeful  mind  unchanging  gems  are  not  befitting  well : 
Thus  will  he  think : — and  what  to  say,  alas  !  I  can  not  tell ! 

"  He'll  think,  when  I  to  market  went,  I  loitered  by  the  way ; 
He'll  think  a  willing  ear  I  lent  to  all  the  lads  might  say ; 
He'll  think  some  other  lover's  hand,  among  my  tresses  noosed 
From  the  ears  where  he  had  placed  them  my  rings  of  pearl  unloosed. 
He'll  think,  when  I  was  sporting  so  beside  this  marble  well, 
My  pearls  fell  in : — and  what  to  say,  alas  !  I  can  not  tell. 

"  He'll  say  I  am  a  woman,  and  we  are  all  the  same  ; 
He'll  say  I  loved,  when  he  was  here,  to  whisper  of  his  flame  ; 
But  when  he  went  to  Tunis,  my  virgin  troth  had  broken. 
And  thought  no  more  of  Mufa,  and  cared  not  for  his  token. 
My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !     Oh  !  luckless,  luckless  well ! 
For  what  to  say  to  Muja,  alas  !  I  can  not  tell ! 

"  I'll  tell  the  truth  to  Mu9a,  and  I  hope  he  will  believe 

That  I  thought  of  him  at  morning,  and  thought  of  him  at  eve  ; 

That  musing  on  my  lover,  when  down  the  sun  was  gone, 

His  ear-rings  in  my  hand  I  held,  by  the  fountain  all  alone  ; 

And  that  my  mind  was  o'er  the  sea,  when  from  my  hand  they  fell, 

And  that  deep  his  love  lies  in  my  heart,  as  they  lie  in  the  well !" 

These  ballads  are  all  from  Mr.  Lockhart's  delightful  book.  I 
add  one  or  two  extracts  from  the  probably  more  literal  version 
of  Mr.  Ticknor.  The  first  is  the  "  Lament  of  the  Count  deSal- 
dana,"  who,  in  his  solitary  prison,  complains  of  his  son,  who  he 
supposes  must  know  his  descent,  and  of  his  wife,  the  Infanta, 
whom  he  presumes  to  be  in  league  with  her  royal  brother.  After 
a  description  of  the  castle  in  which  he  is  confined,  the  Count 
says  : 


212  liECOL  LECTIONS    OF 

Tlic  talc  of  my  imprisoned  life 

Witliiii  these  lotlisome  walls, 
Eacli  moment  iis  it  lingers  by, 

My  hoary  hair  recalls ; 
For  when  this  castle  first  I  saw 

My  beard  was  scarcely  grown, 
And  now,  to  purge  my  youthful  sins, 

Its  folds  hang  whitening  down. 
Then  wlierc  art  thou,  my  careless  sou  1 

And  why  so  dull  and  cold  "? 
Doth  not  my  blood  witliin  thee  run  ] 

Speaks  it  not  loud  and  bold  1 
Alas !  it  may  be  so,  but  still 

Thy  mother's  blood  is  thine ; 
And  what  is  kindred  to  the  King 

Will  plead  no  cause  of  mine  : 
And  thus  all  three  against  me  stand ; — 

For,  the  whole  men  to  quell, 
'Tis  not  enough  to  have  our  foes. 

Our  heart's  blood  must  rebel. 
Meanwhile,  the  guards  that  watch  me  here, 

Of  thy  proud  conquests  boast ; 
But  if  for  me  thou  lead'st  it  not. 

For  whom  then  fights  thy  hosf? 
And  since  thou  leav'st  me  prisoned  here, 

In  cruel  chains  to  groan, 
Or  I  must  be  a  guilty  sire, 

Or  thou  a  guilty  son ! 
Yet  pardon  me,  if  I  offend 

By  uttering  words  so  free. 
For,  while  oppressed  with  age  I  moan. 

No  words  come  back  from  thee. 

Some  of  these  old  songs  are  sufficiently  shrewd  and  humorous  ; 
witness  the  following,  "  in  which  an  elder  sister  is  represented 
lecturing  a  younger  one  on  first  noticing  in  her  the  symptoms  of 
love  :" 

Her  sister  Miguela, 

Once  chid  little  Jane, 
And  the  words  that  she  spake 
Gave  a  great  deal  of  pain. 

"  You  went  yesterday  playing, 

A  child  like  the  rest. 
And  now  you  come  out, 

More  than  other  girls  drest. 

"  You  take  pleasure  in  sighs. 
In  sad  music  delight ; 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  213 

With  the  dawning  you  rise, 
Yet  sit  up  half  the  night. 

"  When  you  take  up  your  work, 

You  look  vacant,  and  stare; 
And  gaze  on  your  sampler, 

Yet  miss  the  stitch  there. 

"  You're  in  love,  people  say. 

And  your  actions  all  show  it; 
New  ways  we  shall  have, 

When  our  mother  shall  know  it. 

"  She'll  nail  up  the  windows. 

And  lock  up  the  door ; 
Leave  to  frolic  and  dance 

She  will  give  us  no  more. 

"  Our  old  aunt  will  be  sent  for. 

To  take  us  to  mass ; 
And  to  stop  all  our  talk 

With  the  girls  as  we  pass. 

"  And  when  we  walk  out, 

She  will  bid  that  old  shrew 
Keep  a  faithful  account 

Of  whate'er  our  eyes  do ; 

"  And  mark  who  goes  by. 

If  I  peep  through  the  blind ; 
And  be  sure  to  detect  us 

In  looking  behind. 

"  Thus,  for  your  idle  follies. 

Must  I  suffer  too ; 
And  though  nothing  I've  done, 

Must  be  punished  like  you." 

"  Oh  !   sister  Miguela, 

Your  chiding  pray  spare  ! 
That  I've  troubles  you  guess. 

But  know  not  what  they  are. 

"  Young  Pedro  it  is, 

Old  Don  Ivor's  fair  youth; — 
But  he's  gone  to  the  wars, 

And,  oh  !    wliere  is  liis  truth  1 

"  I  loved  him  sincerely, 
Loved  all  that  h(;  said ; 


214  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Dut  I  fear  he  is  fu-kle, 
I  fear  he  has  fled. 

"  He  is  gone  of  free  choico, 

Without  summons  or  call; 
And  'tis  foolish  to  love  him, 

Or  like  him  at  all." 

"  Nay,  pray  morn  and  night 

To  the  Virgin  above, 
Lest  this  Pedro  return, 

And  again  you  should  love," 

(Said  Miguela  in  jest, 

As  she  answered  poor  Jane;) 
"For,  ■vvhen  love  has  been  bought 

At  the  cost  of  such  pain, 

"  What  hope  is  there,  sister, 

Unless  the  soul  part, 
That  the  passion  so  cherished 

Should  leave  your  fond  heart  1 

"  As  your  years  still  increase, 

So  increase  will  your  pains  ; 
And  this  you  may  learn 

From  the  proverb's  old  strains : 

'■  That  if,  when  but  a  child. 

Love's  dominion  you  own. 
None  can  tell  what  you'll  do 

When  you  older  are  grown." 

This  dialogue  is  three  hundred  years  old  at  the  very  least.  I 
do  not  think  it  would  be  quite  impossible  to  match  it  now,  with 
a  little  change  of  names  and  of  costume.  Perhaps  I  may  have 
myself  altered  some  of  the  lines,  since  I  quote  from  memory,  and 
have  not  the  book  to  refer  to. 

It  is  not  the  least  gratifying  tribute  to  Mr.  Ticknor's  valuable 
work,  that  it  was  recommended  for  perusal  by  Mr.  Macaulay  to 
the  Glueen  of  England. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  215 


XVII. 

FEMALE    POETS. 

MISS    BLAMIRE. MRS.    JAMES    GRAY. 

The  name  of  Blamire  has  always  a  certain  interest  for  me,  in 
consequence  of  a  circumstance,  which,  as  it  took  place  somewhere 
ahout  five-and-forty  years  ago,  and  has  reference  to  a  flirtation 
of  twenty  years  previous,  there  can  not  now  be  much  harm  in 
relating. 

Being  with  my  father  and  mother  on  a  visit  about  six  miles 
from  Southampton,  we  vi^ere  invited  by  a  gentleman  of  the  neigh- 
borhood to  meet  the  wife  and  daughters  of  a  certain  Dr.  Blamire. 
"  An  old  friend  of  yours  and  mine,"  quoth  our  inviter  to  my 
father.  "  Don't  you  remember  how  you  used  to  flirt  with  the 
fair  lady  when  you  and  Babington  were  at  Haslar  ?  Faith,  if 
Blamire  had  not  taken  pity  on  her,  it  would  have  gone  hard  with 
the  poor  damsel  !  However,  he  made  up  to  the  disconsolate 
maiden,  and  she  got  over  it.  Nothing  like  a  new  love  for  chas- 
ing away  an  old  one.  You  must  dine  with  us  to-morrow.  I 
shall  like  to  see  the  meeting." 

My  father  did  not  attempt  to  deny  the  matter.  Men  never  do. 
He  laughed,  as  all  that  wicked  sex  do  laugh  at  such  sins  twenty 
years  after,  and  professed  that  he  should  be  very  glad  to  shake 
hands  with  his  old  acquaintance.      So  the  next  day  we  met. 

I  was  a  little  curious  to  see  how  my  own  dear  mother,  my 
mamma  that  was,  and  the  stranger  lady,  my  mamma  that  might 
have  been,  would  bear  themselves  on  the  occasion.  At  first,  my 
dear  mother,  an  exceedingly  ladylike,  quiet  person,  had  consider- 
ably the  advantage,  being  prepared  for  the  rencontre  and  per- 
fectly calm  and  composed  ;  while  Mrs.  Blamire,  taken,  I  suspect, 
by  surprise,  was  a  good  deal  startled  and  flustered.  This  state 
of  things,  however,  did  not  last.     Mrs.  Blamire  having  got  over 


2  111  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

tlio  lii-st  shook,  coinporlod  liorsflf  like  what  she  evidently  was,  a 
practiced  woman  of  the  world, — would  talk  to  no  one  but  our- 
selves,— -"and  seemed  resolved  not  only  to  make  friends  with  her 
successful  rival,  but  to  strike  up  an  intimacy.  This,  by  no 
means,  entered  into  my  mother's  calculations.  As  the  one  ad- 
vanced the  other  receded,  and,  keeping  always  within  the  limits 
of  civility,  I  never  heard  so  much  easy  chat  put  aside  with  so 
many  cool  and  stately  monosyllables  in  my  life. 

The  most  diverting  part  of  this  scene,  very  amusing  to  a 
stander-by,  was,  that  my  father,  the  only  real  culprit,  was  the 
only  person  who  throughout  maintained  the  appearance  and  de- 
meanor of  the  most  unconscious  innocence.  He  complimented 
Mrs.  Blamire  on  her  daughters  (two  very  fine  girls), — inquired 
after  his  old  friend,  the  Doctor,  who  was  attending  his  patients 
in  a  distant  town, — and  laughed  and  talked  over  bj'gone  stories 
with  the  one  lady,  just  as  if  he  had  not  jilted  her, — and  played 
tlie  kind  and  attentive  husband  to  the  other,  just  as  if  he  had 
never  made  love  to  any  body  except  his  own  dear  wife. 

It  was  one  of  the  strange  domestic  comedies  which  are  hap- 
pening around  us  every  day,  if  we  were  but  aware  of  them,  and 
might  probably  have  ended  in  a  renewal  of  acquaintance  be- 
tween the  two  families  but  for  a  dispute  that  occurred  toward 
the  end  of  the  evening  between  Mrs.  Blamire  and  the  friend  in 
whose  house  we  were  staying,  which  made  the  lady  resolve 
against  accepting  his  hospitable  invitations,  and  I  half  suspect 
hurried  her  off  a  day  or  two  before  her  time. 

This  host  of  ours  was  a  very  celebrated  person, — no  other  than 
William  Cobbett.  Sporting,  not  politics,  had  brought  about  our 
present  visit  and  subsequent  intimacy.  We  had  become  acquaint- 
ed with  Mr.  Cobbett  two  or  three  years  before,  at  this  very  house, 
where  we  were  now  dining  to  meet  Mrs.  Blamire.  Then  my 
father,  a  great  sportsman,  had  met  him  while  on  a  coursing  ex- 
pedition near  Alton, — had  given  him  a  greyhound  that  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with, — had  invited  him  to  attend  another  coursing 
meeting  near  our  own  house  in  Berkshire, — and  finally,  we  were 
now,  in  the  early  autumn,  with  all  manner  of  pointers,  and  set- 
ters, and  greyhounds,  and  spaniels,  shooting  ponies,  and  gun-cases, 
paying  the  return  visit  to  him. 

He  had  at  that  time  a  large  house  at  Botley,  with  a  lawn  and 
gardens  sweeping  down  to   the   Bursledon  River,  which  divided 


A    LITEKARY    LIFE.  217 

his  (Mr.  Cobbett's)  territories  from  the  beautiful  grounds  of  the 
old  friend  where  we  had  been  originally  staying,  the  great  squire 
of  the  place.  His  own  house, — large,  high,  massive,  red,  and 
square,  and  perched  on  a  considerable  eminence, — always  struck 
me  as  not  being  unlike  its  proprietor.  It  was  filled  at  that  time 
almost  to  overflowing.  Lord  Cochrane  was  there,  then  in  the 
very  height  of  his  warlike  fame,  and  as  unlike  the  common  no- 
tion of  a  warrior  as  could  be.  A  gentle,  quiet,  mild  young  man, 
was  this  burner  of  French  fleets  and  cutter-out  of  Spanish  ves- 
sels, as  one  should  see  in  a  summer-day.  He  lay  about  under 
the  trees  reading  Selden  on  the  Dominion  of  the  Seas,  and  let- 
ting the  children  (and  children  always  know  with  whom  they 
may  take  liberties)  play  all  sorts  of  tricks  with  him  at  their  pleas- 
ure. His  ship's  surgeon  was  also  a  visitor,  and  a  young  midship- 
man, and  sometimes  an  elderly  lieutenant,  and  a  Newfoundland 
dog  ;  fine  sailor-like  creatures  all.  Then  there  was  a  very  learn- 
ed clergyman,  a  great  friend  of  Mr.  Gifibrd,  of  the  "  Quarterly," 
with  his  wife  and  daughter, — exceedingly  clever  persons..  Two 
literary  gentleman  from  London  and  ourselves  completed  the  ac- 
tual party  ;  but  there  was  a  large  fluctuating  series  of  guests 
for  the  hour  or  guests  for  the  day,  of  almost  all  ranks  and  de- 
scriptions, from  the  Earl  and  his  Countess  to  the  farmer  and  his 
dame.  The  house  had  room  for  all,  and  the  hearts  of  the 
owners  would  have  had  room  for  three  times  the  number. 

I  never  saw  hospitality  more  genuine,  more  simple,  or  more 
thoroughly  successful  in  the  great  end  of  hospitality,  the  putting 
every  body  completely  at  ease.  There  was  not  the  slightest  at- 
tempt at  finery,  or  display,  or  gentility.  They  called  it  a  farm- 
house, and  every  thing  was  in  accordance  with  the  largest  idea 
of  a  great  English  yeoman  of  the  old  time.  Every  thing  was 
excellent, — every  thing  abundant, — all  served  with  the  greatest 
nicety  by  trim  waiting  damsels  ;  and  every  thing  went  on  with 
such  quiet  regularity  that  of  the  large  circle  of  guests  not  one 
could  find  himself  in  the  way.  I  need  not  say  a  word  more  in 
praise  of  the  good  wife,  very  lately  dead,  to  whom  this  admirable 
order  was  mainly  due.  She  was  a  sweet  motherly  woman, 
realizing  our  notion  of  one  of  Scott's  most  charming  characters, 
Aiiie  Dinmont,  in  her  simplicity,  her  kindness,  and  her  devo- 
tion to  her  husband  and  her  children. 

At  this  time  William  Cobbett  was  at  the  height  of  his  politi- 
K 


218  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

o;il  ropulation  ;  but  oi'  politics  we  heard  little,  and  should,  I  think, 
have  heard  nothin":,  but  for  an  occasional  red-hot  ])atriot,  who 
would  introduce  the  subject,  which  our  host  would  lain  put  aside, 
and  pot  rid  of  as  speedily  as  possible.  There  was  something  of 
Dandle  Dinmont  about  him,  with  his  unfailing  good-humor  and 
pood  spirits, — his  heartiness, — his  love  of  field  sports, — and  his 
liking  i'or  a  foray.  He  was  a  tall,  stout  man,  fair,  and  sunburnt, 
with  a  bright  smile,  and  an  air  compounded  of  the  soldier  and  the 
tarmer,  to  which  his  habit  of  wearing  an  eternal  red  waistcoat 
contributed  not  a  little.  He  was,  I  think,  the  most  athletic  and 
vigorous  person  that  I  have  ever  known.  Nothing  could  tire  him. 
At  home  in  the  morning  he  would  begin  his  active  day  bj'  mow- 
ing his  own  lawn,  beating  his  gardener,  Robinson,  the  best  mower, 
except  himself,  in  the  parish,  at  that  fatiguing  work. 

For  early  rising,  indeed,  he  had  an  absolute  passion,  and  some 
of  the  poetry  that  we  trace  in  his  writings,  whenever  he  speaks 
of  scenery  or  of  rural  objects,  broke  out  in  this  method  of  training 
his  children  into  his  own  matutinal  habits.  The  boy  who  was 
first  down  stairs  was  called  the  Lark  for  the  day,  and  had,  among 
other  indulgences,  the  pretty  privilege  of  making  his  mother's 
nosegay,  and  that  of  any  lady  visitors.  Nor  was  this  the  only 
trace  of  poetical  feeling  that  he  displayed.  Whenever  he  de- 
scribed a  place,  were  it  only  to  say  where  such  a  covey  lay,  or 
such  a  hare  was  found  sitting,  you  could  see  it,  so  graphic — so 
vivid — so  true  Avas  the  picture.  He  showed  the  same  taste  in  the 
purchase  of  his  beautiful  farm  at  Botley,  Fairthorn  ;  even  in  the 
pretty  name.  To  be  sure,  he  did  not  give  the  name,  but  I  al- 
ways thought  that  it  unconsciously  influenced  his  choice  in  the 
purchase.  The  beauty  of  the  situation  certainly  did.  The  fields 
lay  along  the  Bursledon  River,  and  might  have  been  shown  to  a 
foreigner  as  a  specimen  of  the  richest  and  loveliest  English  scenery. 
In  the  cultivation  of  his  garden,  too,  he  displayed  the  same  taste. 
Few  persons  excelled  him  in  the  management  of  vegetables,  fruit, 
and  flowers.  His  green  Indian  corn — his  Carolina  beans — his 
water-melons,  could  hardly  have  been  exceeded  at  New  York. 
His  wall-fruit  was  equally  splendid,  and  much  as  flowers  have 
been  studied  since  that  day,  I  never  saw  a  more  glowing  or  a 
more  fragrant  autumn  garden  than  that  at  Botley,  with  its  pyra- 
mids of  hollyhocks,  and  its  masses  of  china-asters,  of  cloves,  of 
mignonette,  and  of  variegated  geranium.     The  chances  of  life 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  219 

soon  parted  us,  as,  without  grave  faults  on  either  side,  people  do 
lose  sight  of  one  another  ;  but  I  shall  always  look  back  with 
pleasure  and  regret  to  that  visit. 

While  we  were  there,  a  grand  display  of  English  games,  es- 
pecially of  single-stick  and  wrestling,  took  place  under  Mr.  Cob- 
bett's  auspices.  Players  came  from  all  parts  of  the  country, — 
the  south,  the  west,  and  the  north, — to  contend  for  fame  and 
glory,  and  also,  I  believe,  for  a  well-filled  purse  ;  and  this  exhi- 
bition which — quite  forgetting  the  precedent  set  by  a  certain 
princess,  de  jure,  called  Rosalind,  and  another  princess,  de  facto, 
called  Celia — she  termed  barbarous,  was  the  cause  of  his  quarrel 
with  my  mamma  that  might  have  been,  Mrs.  Blamire. 

In  my  life  I  never  saw  two  people  in  a  greater  passion.  Each 
was  thoroughly  pei'suaded  of  being  in  the  right,  either  would  have 
gone  to  the  stake  upon  it,  and  of  course  the  longer  they  argued 
the  more  determined  became  their  conviction.  They  said  all 
manner  of  uncivil  things  ;  they  called  each  other  very  unpretty 
names  ;  she  got  very  near  to  saying,  "  Sir,  you're  a  savage  ;"  he 
did  say,  "Ma'am,  you're  a  fine  lady  ;"  they  talked,  both  at  once, 
until  they  could  talk  no  longer,  and  I  have  always  considered  it 
as  one  of  the  greatest  pieces  of  Christian  forgiveness  that  I  ever  met 
with,  when  Mr.  Cobbett,  after  they  had  both  rather  cooled  down  a 
little,  invited  Mrs.  Blamire  to  dine  at  his  house  the  next  day. 
She,  less  charitable,  declined  the  invitation,  and  we  parted.  As 
I  have  said,  my  father  and  he  had  too  much  of  the  hearty  Eng- 
lish character  in  common  not  to  be  great  friends  ;  I  myself  was 
somewhat  of  a  favorite  (I  think  because  of  my  love  for  poetry, 
though  he  always  said  not),  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  earnest- 
ness with  which  he  congratulated  us  both  on  our  escape  from 
such  a  wife  and  such  a  mother.  "  She'd  have  been  the  death  of 
you  I"  quoth  he,  and  he  believed  it.  Doubtless,  she,  when  we 
were  gone,  spoke  quite  as  ill  of  him,  and  believed  it  also.  Never- 
theless, excellent  persons  were  they  both  ; — only  they  had  quar- 
reled about  the  propriety  or  the  impropriety  of  a  bout  at  single- 
stick !    Such  a  tiling  is  anger  ! 

Upon  comparing  names,  and  dates,  and  places,  it  seems  proba- 
ble that  the  Miss  Blamire,  whose  name  figures  at  the  head  of 
this  paper,  was  the  aunt  of  the  Dr.  Blamire,  of  whom  we  have 
been  speaking.  She  died  unmarried  at  Carlisle,  in  the  year  1794, 
being  then  forty-seven  years  of  age,  the  daughter  of  a  respectable 


220  RECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

Cuinbt'rhuul  <ieiitloinaii,  ;iiul  haviii<r  ueooinpaiiied  a  married  sister 
into  Scothuul  many  years  before, — a  happy  circumstance  to  wnich 
slie  owes  lier  command  of  the  pretty  doric  that  so  becomes  small 
pieces  of  poetry.  Her  verses  remained  uncollected  till  1842, 
when  they  were  published  by  Mr.  Maxwell.  They  are  well 
worth  preserving,  especially  the  one  entitled 

THE  RETURN. 

When  silent  time  wi'  lightly  fuut, 

Had  trod  on  thirty  years, 
I  sought  again  my  native  land, 

Wi'  mony  hopes  and  fears. 
Wha  kens  gin  the  dear  friends  I  left, 

May  still  continue  mine  1 
Or  gin  I  e'er  again  shall  taste 

The  joys  I  left  langsyne  1 

As  I  drew  near  my  ancient  pile, 

My  heart  beat  a'  the  way; 
Ilk  place  I  passed  seemed  yet  to  speak 

0'  some  dear  former  day. 
Those  days  that  followed  me  afar, 

Those  happy  days  o'  mine, 
Whilk  made  me  think  the  present  joys 

A'  naething  to  langsyne. 

The  ivied  tower  now  met  my  eye, 

Where  minstrels  used  to  blaw ; 
Nae  friend  stepped  forth  wi'  open  hand, 

Nae  weel -kenned  face  I  saw; 
Till  Donald  tottered  to  the  door, 

Wham  I  left  in  his  prime, 
AHd  grat  to  see  the  lad  return, 

He  bore  about  langsyne. 

I  ran  to  ilka  dear  friend's  room, 

As  if  to  see  them  there ; 
I  knew  where  ilk  ane  used  to  sit. 

And  hung  o'er  mony  a  chair; 
Till  soft  remembrance  flung  a  vail 

Across  these  een  o'  mine 
I  closed  the  door,  and  sobbed  aloud, 

To  think  on  auld  langsyne. 

Some  pensy  chiels,  a  new-sprung  race, 
Wad  next  their  welcome  pay, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  221 

Wha  sliuddered  at  my  gothic  wa's, 

And  wished  my  groves  awa. 
"Jut,  cut,"  they  cried,  "yon  aged  elms, 

Lay  low  yon  mournfu'  pine :" 
•'  Na  !  na !  our  fathers'  names  grow  there, 

Memorials  o'  langsyne." 

To  wean  me  fra  these  mournfu'  thoughts, 

They  took  me  to  the  town ; 
But  sair  on  ilka  weel-kenned  face, 

I  missed  the  youthfu'  bloom. 
At  ba's  they  pointed  to  a  nymph, 

Whom  a'  declared  divine  ; 
But  sure  her  mother's  blushing  cheeks 

Were  fairer  far  langsyne. 

In  vain  I  sought  in  music's  sound, 

To  find  that  magic  art, 
Which  aft  in  Scotland's  ancient  lays 

Hae  thrilled  through  a'  my  heart; 
The  sang  had  mony  an  artfu'  tui-n, 

My  ear  confessed  'twas  fine. 
But  I  missed  the  simple  melody 

I  listened  to  langsyne. 

Ye  sons  to  comrades  o'  my  youth, 

Forgie  an  auld  man's  spleen, 
Wha  midst  your  gayest  scenes  still  mourns 

The  days  he  ance  has  seen. 
When  time  has  passed,  and  seasons  fled, 

Your  hearts  will  feel  like  mine. 
And  aye  the  sang  will  maist  delight 

That  minds  ye  o'  langsyne. 

I  add  an  example  of  a  still  bolder  effort — an  attempt  to  make 
tender  sentiment  be  felt  under  the  disguise  of  the  rude  dialect  of 
Cumberland.  Perhaps  it  may  be  the  effect  of  Auld  Lang  Syne 
on  myself,  that  makes  me  think  it  eminently  successful. 

AULD  ROBIN  FORBES. 

And  auld  Robin  Forbes  has  gi'cn  tem  a  dance, 

I  pat  on  my  speckets  to  see  them  aw  prance ; 

I  thought  o'  the  days  when  I  was  but  fifteen. 

And  skepped  wi'  the  b(!st  ujjon  Forbes's  green. 

Of  aw  things  that  is,  1  think  thout  is  meast  queer; 

It  brings  that  that's  by  past,  and  sets  it  down  here  ; 

I  see  Willy  as  plain  as  1  din  this  bit  leace. 

When  he  tuik  his  cwoat  lappet  and  deeghtcd  his  feace. 


222  KECOLLECT10>'S     OF 

The  lasses  aw  wondered  what  Willy  cud  see 

In  yen  that  was  dark  and  hard-featured  leyke  me  ; 

And  tliey  wondered  ay  niair  when  they  talked  o'  my  wit, 

And  slyly  telt  Willy  that  cudn't  be  it. 

But  Willy  he  laughi'd,  and  he  meade  me  his  weyfe, 

And  wha  was  mair  happy  tiirough  aw  his  lang  leyfe  1 

It's  e'en  my  great  coinl'ort  now  Willy  is  geane, 

That  he  often  said  nae  pleace  was  leyke  his  own  heame. 

I  mind  when  I  carried  nij'  wark  to  yon  steyle, 

Where  Willy  was  deyken  the  time  to  beguile, 

He  wad  fling  me  a  daisy  to  put  i'  my  breast, 

And  I  hammered  my  noddle  to  make  out  a  jest ; 

But  merry  or  grave,  Willy  often  wad  tell 

There  was  nane  o'  the  leave,  that  was  leyke  my  ain  sel' ; 

And  he  spak  what  he  thout,  for  I'd  hardly  a  plack, 

When  we  married,  and  nobbet  ae  gown  to  my  back. 

When  the  clock  had  struck  eight,  I  expected  him  heame, 

And  whiles  went  to  meet  him  as  far  as  Dumleane ; 

Of  aw  hours  it  telt,  eight  was  dearest  to  me. 

And  now  when  it  streykes,  there's  a  tear  i'  my  e'e. 

Oh,  Willy  1  dear  Willy  !  it  never  can  be, 

That  age,  time,  or  death,  can  divide  thee  and  me  ! 

For  that  spot  on  earth  that's  aye  dearest  to  me, 

Is  the  turf  that  has  covered  my  Willy  frae  me.* 

Mrs.  James  Gray  is  better  known  in  England  as  Mary  Anne 
Browne,  and  under  that  name  might  have  furnished  the  text  to 
another  melancholy  chapter  on  Prodigies,  a  chapter  on  fine  and 
promising  girls  who  have  become  martyrs  to  the  fond  mistakes 
of  parents  and  the  careless  flatteries  of  friends,  and  have  lost  the 
happy  and  healthful  thoughtlessness  of  the  child  in  the  prema- 
ture cares,  the  untimely  aspirations,  the  fears,  anxieties,  and  dis- 
appointments of  the  poetess.  If  in  my  humble  career  I  can  look 
back  to  any  part  of  my  own  conduct  with  real  satisfaction,  it  is 
that  I  have  always,  when  a  young  lady  has  been  brought  to  me 
in  her  character  of  prodigy,  had  the  courage  to  give  present  pain, 
in  order  to  avert  a  future  evil.  I  have  always  said  "  wait ;"  cer- 
tain that  the  more  real  was  the  talent  the  greater  was  the  dan- 

*  Those  who  are  fond  of  Scotch  music  may  be  glad  to  be  reminded  that 
the  simply-pathetic  song, 

"  What  ails  this  heart  of  mine  V 

is  also  by  Miss  Susanna  Blamire. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  223 

ger  of  over-exciting  the  youthful  faculties,  of  over-stimulating  the 
youthful  sensibility.  In  Miss  Mary  Anne  Browne's  case,  no  ad- 
vice was  asked.  I  saw  her  first  a  fine  tall  girl  of  fourteen, 
already  a  full-fledged  authoress,  unmercifully  lauded  by  some,  as 
if  verses,  especially  love  verses,  written  at  that  age,  could  be  any 
thing  better  than  clever  imitations  ;  and  still  more  cruelly  depre- 
ciated by  others,  as  if  we  had  a  right  to  expect  all  the  results  of 
long  study, — of  skillful  practice, — of  observation, — and  of  expe- 
rience from  one  who  was  in  every  thing  but  her  quick  ear  and  her 
fertile  fancy  still  a  child. 

Thus  brought  forward,  praised  to  the  skies  one  day,  utterly 
neglected  the  next, — taken,  as  if  a  woman,  into  London  society, 
and  then  thrown  back  upon  a  family  circle  in  a  provincial  town, 
her  health  and  spirits  suffered  ;  and,  if  she  had  not  been  in  heart 
and  temper  a  girl  of  a  thousand,  she  would  have  become  soured 
and  miserable  for  life.  The  real  power  was  in  her,  however,  and 
the  depression  was  temporary.  When  taken  from  the  unhealthy 
atmosphere  of  the  stove,  the  plant  recovered  its  strength  and 
blossomed  freely  in  the  open  air.  When  no  longer  stimulated  by 
factitious  applause,  she  wrote  verses  deserving  of  sincere  admira- 
tion and  enduring  fame. 

An  accidental  visit  to  Ireland  introduced  her  poems  to  the 
Editor  of  the  "  Dublin  University  Magazine,"  and  under  his 
judicious  encouragement  she  poured  forth  her  various  and  earnest 
lays  with  astonishing  fertility  and  abundance.  In  Ireland,  too, 
she  met  the  Scottish  gentleman,  Mr.  James  Gray,  the  nephew  of 
the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  whom,  after  some  delay  and  difficulty,  she 
married. 

Her  wedded  life  appears  to  have  been  singularly  happy, — as 
happy  as  it  was  brief  After  a  short  illness  she  expired,  while 
still  in  the  bloom  of  womanhood  (she  had  not  yet  completed  her 
thirty-third  year),  and  while  rising  daily  in  poetical  power  and 
poetical  reputation. 

Her  highest  literary  merit  was,  however,  not  known  until  after 
her  death.  Of  all  poetesses,  George  Sand  herself  not  excepted, 
she  seems  to  mc  to  touch  with  the  sweetest,  the  firmest,  the  most 
delicate  hand,  the  difficult  chords  of  female  passion.  There  is  a 
reality  in  her  love,  and  in  the  verse  that  tells  it,  which  can  not 
be  read  without  a  deep  and  tender  sympathy.  Beautiful  and 
statuesque  as  her  sketches  from  the  antique  undoubtedly  are,  I 


2'2L  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 

l>retor  to  quote  from  these  jiosthuinous  poems,  written  from  her 
very  heart  of  hearts,  in  wliich  jiassion  seems  to  burst  uncon- 
sciously into  poetry. 

LOVES  MEMORY. 

I  wove  a  wreath,  'twas  IVesh  and  fair, 

Rich  roses  in  their  crimson  pride, 
And  tlie  blue  harebell  tlowers  were  there  ; — 

I  wove  and  flung  the  wreath  aside : 
Too  much  did  those  bright  blossoms  speak 
Of  thy  dear  eyes  and  youtliful  cheek. 

I  took  my  lute;  methought  its  strain 

Might  wile  the  heavy  hours  along; 
I  strove  to  1511  my  heart  and  brain 

With  the  sweet  breath  of  ancient  song: 
In  vain;  whate'er  I  made  my  choice 
Was  fraught  with  thy  bewitching  voice. 

And  do^vn  I  laid  the  restless  lute, 

And  turned  me  to  the  poet's  page; 
And  vainly  deemed  that  converse  mute, 

Unmingled  might  my  heart  engage : 
But  in  the  poet's  work  I  find 
The  fellow  essence  of  thy  mind. 

I  wandered  midst  the  silent  wood. 

And  sought  the  greenest,  coolest  glade, 

Where  not  a  sunbeam  might  intrude  ; 
And  in  a  chestnut's  quiet  shade 

I  sate,  and  in  that  leafy  gloom, 

Thought  of  the  darkness  of  the  tomb. 

And  strove  to  lead  my  heart  to  drink 
At  the  deep  founts  of  wandering  thought, 

To  ponder  on  the  viewless  link 

Between  our  souls  and  bodies  wrought ; 

To  quench  my  passionate  dreams  of  thee 

Awhile  in  that  philosophy. 

Yet,  all  the  while,  thine  image  bright, 

Still  flitted  by  my  mind  to  win, 
Casting  through  dreamy  thoughts  its  light, 

Like  sunshine  that  would  enter  in  ; 
And  every  leaf  and  every  tree 
Seemed  quivering  with  beams  of  thee. 

Beloved !  I  will  strive  no  more  ! 
Thine  image,  in  vice-regal  power, 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  225 

Shall  ruling  sit  all  memories  o'er, 

Throned  in  my  heart,  until  the  hour 
When  thou  thyself  shalt  come  again, 
Restoring  there  thine  olden  reign. 

The  next  poem  is  also  written  in  a  hopeful  mood  : — 

Fear  not,  beloved,  though  clouds  may  lower, 

While  rainbow  visions  melt  away. 
Faith's  holy  star  hath  still  a  power 

That  may  the  deepest  midnight  sway. 
Fear  not !  I  take  a  prophet's  tone, 

Our  love  can  neither  wane  nor  set; 
My  heart  grows  strong  in  trust:  mine  own, 

We  shall  be  happy  yet ! 

What  though  long  anxious  years  have  passed, 

Since  this  true  heart  was  vowed  to  thine, 
There  comes  for  us  a  light  at  last, 

Whose  beam  upon  our  path  shall  shine. 
We,  who  have  loved  'mid  doubts  and  fears, 

Yet  never  with  one  hour's  regret; 
There  comes  a  joy  to  gild  our  tears; 

We  shall  be  happy  yet! 

Ay,  by  the  wandering  birds,  that  find 

A  home  beyond  the  mountain  wave. 
Though  wind,  and  rain,  and  hail,  combined 

To  bow  them  to  an  ocean  grave  ; 
By  summer  suns  that  brightly  rise. 

Though  erst  in  mournful  tears  they  set; 
By  all  Love's  hopeful  prophecies, 

We  shall  be  happy  yet! 

It  is  really  pleasant  to  know  that,  although  the  bliss  was  short 
in  duration,  yet  the  vows  of  that  faithful  heart  were  heard.  Here 
is  one  other  love  note  : — 

Another  j'ear  is  dying  fast, 

A  chequered  year  of  joy  and  woe, 
And  dark  and  light  alike  are  past, 

The  rose  and  thorn  at  once  laid  low : 
AU  things  are  changed; — and  I  am  changed, 

Even  in  the  love  I  knew  before, 
Not  that  my  heart  can  be  estranged. 

But  I  have  learnt  to  love  thee  more. 

Yes,  to  mine  ear  thine  accents  all. 

Have  grown  more  welcome  and  more  glad. 


226  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Thj-  coming  step  more  musical, 

And  thy  departing  tread  more  sad. 
They  say  the  first  bright  dawn  of  love 

Hatli  bliss  no  other  time  can  show ; 
But  I  liave  lived  and  learned  to  know 

How  dearer  far  its  future  glow. 

Their  disappointments  we  have  proved, 

Dark  clouds  across  our  path  have  been; 
Yet  better  through  them  all  we  loved, 

As  dark  and  drearier  grew  the  scene. 
Oh !    would  this  truth  could  bring  relief 

To  thee,  when  earthly  cares  annoy, 
That  I  would  rather  share  thy  grief 

Than  revel  in  another's  joy. 

A  temperament  so  framed  must,  of  necessity,  take  pleasure  iu 
the  beauties  of  Nature.  1  must  make  room  for  a  few  stanzas  of 
her 

ANTICIPATIONS  OF  THE  COUNTRY. 

The  summer  sunshine  falls 
O'er  the  hot  vistas  of  the  crowded  town, 

Startling  the  dusty  walls 
With  beauty  and  with  glory  not  their  own; 

The  summer  skies  are  bright. 
A  canopy  of  peace  above  the  strife 

Of  human  hearts  that  fight 
And  struggle  on  the  battle  plain  of  life. 

Summers  have  passed  away 
Since  I  a  dweller  'mid  this  scene  became, 

And  still  their  earliest  ray 
Hath  sent  a  thirsty  longing  through  my  frame 

A  longing  to  be  far 
In  the  green  woodlands,  in  the  pastures  fair, 

And  not  as  travelers  are ; 
My  heart  hath  yearned  to  be  a  dweller  there. 

It  comes,  it  comes  at  last; 
All  I  have  panted  for  is  near  me  now ; 

Ere  many  hours  have  past, 
A  cool  untroubled  breeze  shall  fan  my  brow. 

The  faint  contiimous  hum 
That  hath  been  round  me  till  'twas  scarcely  heard, 

No  more  shall  near  rac  come 
To  mar  the  melodies  of  bee  or  bird. 

No  more  the  sultry  street 
Shall  echo  to  my  quick,  uneasy  tread ; 
Gladly  I  turn  my  feet 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  227 

To  where  the  turf  in  daisied  pride  is  spread. 

No  more  the  whirling  wheel, 
The  tramping  horses,  and  the  people's  shout  ;- 

Oh  !  how  nay  heart  will  feel 
The  pleasant  quiet  circling  me  about. 

Blessed  to  go  away, 
To  where  the  wild-flower  blooms  and  wood-bird  sings, 

And  lightly  o'er  the  spray 
The  purple  vetch  its  WTeathing  garland  flings. 


One  more  I  must  quote,  of  a  still  different  strain.  It  was  left 
without  a  title,  a  mere  fragment  among  her  papers  ;  but  the 
editor  of  the  "Dublin  University  Magazine"  has  called  it 

THE  GIFTED. 

Oh,  woe  for  those  whose  dearest  themes 

Must  rest  within  the  bosom's  fold! 
Oh,  woe  for  those  who  live  on  dreams, 

Unheeded  by  the  coarse  and  cold. 
They  have  a  hidden  life,  akin 

To  nothing  in  this  earthly  sphere ; 
They  have  a  glorious  world  within, 

Where  nothing  mortal  may  appear; 
A  world  of  song,  and  flower,  and  gem, 

Yet  woe  for  them !   Oh,  woe  for  them  ! 

Such  his  perplexing  grief  who  seeks 

A  refuge  upon  stranger  shores ; 
In  vain  to  foreign  ears  he  speaks, 

In  vain  their  sympathy  implores. 
The  same  sad  fate  a  bark  might  prove. 

Laden  with  gold  or  princely  store. 
Without  a  guiding  star  above, 

With  an  immcasured  deep  before. 
The  world  doth  scorn  them,  gibe,  condemn ; — 

Woe  for  the  gifted!     Woe  for  them! 

Surely  this  was  a  very  remarkable  woman ;  and  these  poems 
(there  are  many  more  of  nearly  equal  beauty)  should  not  be  loft 
to  the  perishable  record  of  a  magazine.  Her  earliest  publications 
were,  as  I  have  said,  of  little  worth  ;  but  enough  of  the  highest 
merit  miglit  be  collected  to  form  au  enduring  memorial  of  her 
genius  and  her  virtues. 


223  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


XVIII. 

AMERICAN    ORATORS. 

DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

O.NE  of  the  greatest,  if  not  the  very  greatest,  of  the  living  ora- 
tors of  America,  is,  beyond  all  manner  of  doubt,  Daniel  Webster. 
That  he  is  also  celebrated  as  a  lawyer  and  a  statesman,  is  a 
matter  of  course  in  that  practical  country,  where  even  so  high  a 
gift  as  that  of  eloquence  is  brought  to  bear  on  the  fortunes  of  in- 
dividuals and  the  prosperity  of  the  commonwealth, — no  idle 
pilaster  placed  for  ornament,  but  a  solid  column  aiding  to  support 
the  building.  A  column  indeed,  stately  and  graceful  with  its 
Corinthian  capital,  gives  no  bad  idea  of  Mr.  Webster;  of  his  tall 
and  muscular  person,  his  massive  features,  noble  head,  and  the 
general  expression  of  placid  strength  by  which  he  is  distinguished. 
This  is  a  mere  fanciful  comparison  ;  but  Sir  Augustus  Callcott's 
fine  figure  of  Columbus  has  been  reckoned  very  like  him  ;  a  re- 
semblance that  must  have  been  fortuitous,  since  the  picture  was 
painted  before  the  artist  had  even  seen  the  celebrated  orator. 

When  in  England  some  ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  Mr.  Webster's 
calm  manner  of  speaking  excited  much  admiration  and  perhaps 
a  little  surprise,  as  contrasted  with  the  astounding  and  somewhat 
rough  rapidity  of  progress  which  is  the  chief  characteristic  of  his 
native  land.  And  yet  that  calmness  of  manner  was  just  what 
might  be  expected  from  a  countryman  of  Washington,  earnest, 
thoughtful,  weighty,  wise.  No  visitor  to  London  ever  left  be- 
hind him  pleasanter  recollections,  and  I  hope  that  the  good  im- 
pression was  reciprocal.  Ever}'  body  was  delighted  with  his 
geniality  and  taste  ;  and  he  could  hardly  fail  to  like  the  people 
who  so  heartily  liked  him.  Among  our  citis  and  our  scenery 
he  admired  that  most  which  was  most  worthy  of  admiration  ; 
preferring,  in  common  with  many  of  the  most  gifted  of  his  coun- 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  229 

trymen,  our  beautiful  Oxford,  whose  winding  street  exhibits  such 
a  condensation  of  picturesque  architecture,  mixed  with  water, 
trees,  and  gardens,  with  ancient  costume,  with  eager  youth,  with 
by-gone  associations  and  rising  hope,  certainly  to  any  of  our  new 
commercial  towns,  and  perhaps,  as  mere  picture,  to  London  her- 
self; and  carrying  home  with  him,  as  one  of  the  most  precious 
and  characteristic  memorials  of  the  land  of  his  forefathers,  a  large 
collection  of  architectural  engravings,  representing  our  magnifi- 
cent Gothic  cathedrals,  and  such  of  our  Norman  castles  and 
Tudor  manor-houses,  as  have  escaped  the  barbarities  of  modem 
improvers.  We  are  returning  ourselves  to  that  style  now  ;  but 
twelve  years  ago  it  was  his  own  good  taste,  and  not  the  fashion 
of  the  day  that  prompted  the  preference. 

I  owe  to  his  kindness,  and  to  that  of  my  admirable  friend,  Mr. 
Kenyon,  who  accompanied  him,  the  honor  and  pleasure  of  a  visit 
from  Mr.  Webster  and  his  amiable  family  in  their  transit  from 
Oxford  to  Windsor ; — my  local  position  between  these  two  points 
of  attraction  has  often  procured  for  me  the  gratification  of  seeing 
my  American  friends  when  making  that  journey  ;^but  during 
this  visit,  a  little  circumstance  occurred  so  characteristic,  so 
graceful,  and  so  gracious,  that  I  can  not  resist  the  temptation  of 
relating  it. 

Walking  in  my  cottage  garden,  we  talked  naturally  of  the 
roses  and  pinks  that  surrounded  us,  and  of  the  different  indigenous 
flowers  of  our  island  and  of  the  United  States.  I  had  myself 
had  the  satisfaction  of  sending  to  my  friend,  Mr.  Theodore  Sedg- 
wick, a  hamper  containing  roots  of  many  English  plants  familiar 
to  our  poetry  :  the  common  ivy — how  could  they  want  ivy  who 
had  had  no  time  for  ruins? — the  primrose  and  the  cowslip,  im- 
mortalized by  Shakspeare  and  by  Milton  ;  and  the  sweet-sc*nted 
violets,  both  white  and  purple,  of  our  hedgerows  and  our  lanes ; 
that  known  as  the  violet  in  America  (Mr.  Bryant  somewhere 
speaks  of  it  as  "  the  yellow  violet")  being,  I  suspect,  the  little 
wild  pansy  [viola  tricolor)  renowned  as  the  love-in-idleness  of 
Shakspeare's  famous  compliment  to  Gtueen  Elizabeth.  Of  these 
we  spoke  ;  and  I  expressed  an  interes;  in  two  flowers  known  to 
me  only  by  the  vivid  description  of  Miss  Martineau  :  the  scarlet 
lily  of  New  York  and  of  the  Canadian  woods,  and  the  fringed 
gentian  of  Niagara.  I  observed  that  our  illustrious  guest  made 
some  remark  to  one  of  the  ladies  of  his  party  ;   but  1   little  ex- 


230  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

pected  lliiit,  as  soon  alter  his  return  as  seeds  ol' these  plants  could 
be  procured,  I  should  receive  a  packet  of  each,  signed  and  di- 
rected by  his  own  hand.  How  much  pleasure  these  little  kind- 
nesses give  !  And  how  many  such  have  come  to  mc  I'rom  over 
the  same  wide  ocean  I 

I  could  tell  another  story  also  of  a  great  American  orator,  a 
story  told  to  me  two  or  three  years  before  this  occurrence  by  an- 
other distinguished  American  visitor.  He  told  it  to  me  witli  the 
low  tone  of  a  deep  sympathy  one  summer  evening  in  my  old  gar- 
den room,  the  moon  rising  red  and  full  above  the  pyramid  of 
geraniums,  and  the  scent  of  a  thousand  flowers  floating  upon  the 
air. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  tell  it  here  ;  except  that  both  stories  be- 
long in  some  sort  to  my  garden,  and  that  both  relate  to  men  emi- 
nent in  America  as  lawyers  and  as  statesmen  ;  although  of  my 
friend's  hero,  for  obvious  reasons,  I  do  not  venture  to  give  the 
name.  Many  years  have  passed  since  I  heard  that  interesting 
narrative,  and  in  small  circumstances  of  detail  I  may  mistake  ; 
but  the  one  great  fact,  the  admirable  self-denial  and  self-sacrifice 
can  never  be  forgotten.     It  strikes  too  deep  a  root  in  the  heart. 

The  story  was  of  a  father,  one  of  those  sturdy  pioneers  of  Amer- 
ican civilization,  who  hew  their  way  through  the  Western  Forest, 
and  of  his  two  stalwart  boys.  They  had  built  a  homestead,  and 
cleared  many  acres  around  them,  when,  during  a  pause  in  their 
labors,  one  of  the  sons  (I  think  the  younger)  addressed  his  father 
to  this  effect  :  "  Father  I  the  house  is  raised  ;  the  trees  are  down  ; 
the  fields  are  fenced.  You  have  my  brother  to  help  yoix  and  can 
do  without  me.  Let  me  go  to  the  town  and  study.  I  feel  that  I 
was  born  to  fight  my  way  among  men,  and  not  to  wear  out  my 
days  in  the  toils  of  a  husbandman." 

The  father  must  have  been  worthy  of  such  a  son,  for  he  un- 
derstood him,  and  felt  the  full  force  of  the  appeal.  "  Well,  my 
boy,"  said  he  ;  "go  where  you  will,  and  my  blessing  shall  go 
with  you.  Take  these  dollars  and  make  them  last  as  long  as  you 
can,  for  I  have  no  more  to  give." 

So  the  bold  adventurer  sallied  forth  to  the  nearest  town  where 
education  was  to  be  won.  The  dollars  were  but  few  ;  and  the 
young  pupil,  although  a  model  of  frugality  and  application,  found 
himself  penniless  long  before  he  had  fought  his  way  through  the 
college  course.     His  courage,  however,  never  failed.     By  that 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  231 

time  he  had  discovered  his  own  strength.  He  engaged  with  a 
lawyer  to  write  for  him  during  the  evenings  and  by  night,  while 
he  pursued  his  regular  studies  by  day  ;  thus  defraying  his  own 
expenses,  whether  for  education  or  for  living;  and  evincing  in 
his  legal  avocations  such  extraordinary  ability  and  aptness,  that 
by  the  time  he  had  arrived  at  the  head  of  his  class,  his  friend 
the  lawyer  furnished  him  with  a  letter  to  his  own  brother,  then 
in  high  practice  in  the  chief  town  of  the  state,  assuring  him 
"  that  the  recommendation  which  that  letter  contained  would  se- 
cure to  him  immediate  employment,  and  eventually,  with  his 
own  powers  and  perseverance,  all  that  he  required  for  a  high 
success  in  life." 

Enchanted  with  his  prospects,  our  adventurer  set  forth  upon  a 
visit  to  his  forest  home,  to  take  leave  of  his  parents  before  the 
long  absence  which  he  anticipated. 

On  his  arrival  at  the  farm,  he  found  the  delight  and  pride 
which  such  a  career  could  hardly  fail  to  claim  ;  but  he  found 
also  that  which  he  had  seen  no  cause  to  expect — the  brother 
whom  he  had  left  behind  content  with  healthful  labor  sickening 
and  drooping  under  the  same  hunger  and  thirst  for  mental  im- 
provement that  he  himself  had  experienced  some  years  before. 
What  was  the  resolve  of  that  noble  heart  ?  How  did  he  act 
imdcr  such  a  trial  ?  He  laid  his  letter  of  introduction  aside — 
that  letter  which  was  to  command  fortune  I  He  took  his  brother 
with  him  to  the  town  which  he  had  quitted  as  he  thought  for- 
ever ;  placed  him  in  the  college  where  he  himself  had  studied ; 
returned  to  his  old  friend  the  lawyer  ;  resumed  his  labors  in  the 
ofHce,  and  worked  calmly  on  until  the  brother,  whom  he  wholly 
supported,  aided  by  his  instructions,  had  overcome  all  his  disad- 
vantages and  attained  the  high  place  in  the  classes  that  he  him- 
self had  occupied. 

This  was  my  visitor's  story.  I  only  wish  I  could  tell  it  to  my 
readers  as  he  told  it  to  me.  But  even  under  all  the  imperfections 
of  my  poor  narrative,  and  lacking  the  crowning  name  that  gives 
to  it  such  a  power  of  contrast,  it  still  seems  to  me  almost  un- 
equaled  in  its  simplicity  and  grandeur  of  self-sacrifice.  When 
some  powerful  monarch,  like  Charles  the  Fifth,  abdicates  the 
thrones  of  Germany  and  Spain  and  the  Indies,  it  sounds  much. 
But  then  it  is  a  sickly,  aged,  disenchanted  man,  who  knows  full 
W(.'ll  the  vanity  and  nothingness  of  what  he  resigns  ;  who  has  felt 


2o2  RECOLLKCTIOXS    OF 

for  many  a  year  how  weary  a  thing  it  is  to  be  an  Emperor. 
Besides,  he  is  an  Kmpcror  still.  The  eyes  of  the  world  are  upon 
him.  He  has  only  pnt  on  a  new  form  of  royalty.  Now  here  is 
a  yonnjr,  an  ambitious,  a  self-reliant  spirit,  who  puts  aside,  not  by 
one  grand  and  solemn  abdication,  but  by  the  quiet,  silent,  painful 
ellurt  of  days  and  months  and  years,  the  most  precious  crown  of 
all  the  world,  the  bright  crown  of  Hope. 

After  some  natural  exclamations  of  admiration,  came  the  equally 
natural  question,  "  Did  that  favored  brother  prove  himself  worthy 
of  such  a  sacrifice  ?" 

"  Alas  I"  said  my  friend,  "  he  lived  only  long  enough  to  show 
how  worthy  he  would  have  proved.  He  had  already  taken  his 
place  among  the  most  eminent  lawyers  of  Massachusetts  when 
he  was  snatched  away  by  death." 

To  return  to  Mr.  Webster :  I  quote  (from  a  fine  American 
edition  of  his  speeches,  sent  to  me  by  a  friend,  who  gave  eveiy 
promise  of  following  in  the  same  track)  part  of  an  "  argument 
on  the  trial  of  John  F.  Knapp,  for  the  nmrder  of  Joseph  AVhite, 
Esq.,  of  Salem,  in  the  county  of  Essex,  Massachusetts,  on  the 
Gth  of  April,  1830." 

I  choose  this  thrilling  story  of  a  great  crime,  not  merely  on  ac- 
count of  the  fine  picture  which  it  presents  of  an  old  man  mur- 
dered in  his  sleep,  and  the  state  of  mind  of  the  murderer,  but  be- 
cause, as  a  subject  of  universal  interest,  the  eloquence  bestowed 
on  such  a  theme  will  be  better  appreciated  in  England,  than 
those  speeches  which,  referring  to  national  policy,  demand  of  the 
reader  a  certain  acquaintance  not  only  with  the  internal  govern- 
ment, but  with  the  position  of  conflicting  parties  in  the  United 
States.  I  might  also  have  another  reason  for  my  selection  :  a, 
desire  to  adduce  the  authority  of  so  eminent  a  statesman  trained 
under  the  freest  of  all  in.stitutions,  and  the  most  sparing  of  capi- 
tal punishment,  and  passing  his  life  in  the  vindication  of  individ- 
ual and  national  liberty,  against  the  unhealthy  and  morbid  sym- 
pathy with  crime  and  criminals,  which  is  one  of  the  crying  evils 
of  our  day. 

Short  as  my  extracts  from  this  magnificent  speech  must  neces- 
sarily be,  the  introductory  statement  is  essential  to  their  compre- 
hension. 

"  Mr.  White,  a  highly  respectable  and  wealthy  citizen  of  Sa- 
k'Ui,  about  eighty  years  of  age,  was  found  on  the  morning  of  the 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  233 

7th  of  April,  1830,  in  his  bed  murdered,  under  such  circum- 
stances as  to  create  a  strong  sensation  in  that  toAvn  and  through- 
out the  community. 

"  Richard  Crowninshield,  George  Crowninshield,  Joseph  J. 
Knapp  and  John  F.  Knapp  were,  a  few  weeks  after,  arrested  on 
a  charge  of  having  perpetrated  the  murder,  and  committed  for 
trial.  Joseph  J.  Knapp  soon  after,  under  the  promise  of  favor 
from  Government  made  a  full  confession  of  the  crime  and  the  cir- 
cumstances attending  it.  In  a  few  days  after  this  disclosure  was 
made,  Richard  Crowninshield,  who  was  supposed  to  have  been 
the  principal  assassin,  committed  suicide. 

"  A  Special  Session  of  the  Supreme  Court  was  ordered  by  the 
Legislature  for  the  trial  of  the  prisoners  at  Salem  in  July.  At 
that  time,  John  F.  Knapp  w^as  indicted  as  principal  in  the  mur- 
der, and  George  Crowninshield  and  Joseph  J.  Knapp  as  accessories. 

"  On  account  of  the  death  of  Chief  Justice  Parker,  which  oc- 
curred on  the  26th  of  July,  the  court  adjourned  to  Tuesday,  the 
3d  of  August,  when  it  proceeded  in  the  trial  of  John  F.  Knapp. 
Joseph  J.  Knapp  being  called  upon  refused  to  testify,  and  the 
pledge  of  the  Government  was  withdrawn. 

"  At  the  request  of  the  prosecuting  officers  of  the  Government, 
Mr.  Webster  appeared  as  counsel  and  assisted  at  the  trial. 

"  Mr.  Dexter  addressed  the  jury  on  behalf  of  the  prisoner,  and 
was  succeeded  by  Mr.  Webster  in  the  following  speech  : — 

"  I  am  little  accustomed,  gentlemen,  to  the  part  which  I  am 
now  attempting  to  perform.  Hardly  more  than  once  or  twice  has 
it  happened  to  me  to  be  concerned,  on  the  side  of  the  Government, 
in  any  criminal  prosecution  whatever  ;  and  never,  until  the  pres- 
ent occasion,  in  any  case  affecting  life. 

"  But  I  very  much  regret  that  it  should  have  been  thought 
necessary  to  suggest  to  you  that  I  am  brought  here  to  hurry  you 
against  the  law  and  beyond  the  evidence.  I  hope  I  have  too 
much  regard  for  justice,  and  too  much  respect  for  my  own  char- 
acter, to  attempt  either  ;  and  were  I  to  make  such  attempt,  I  am 
certain  that  in  this  court  nothing  could  be  carried  against  the  law, 
and  that  gentlemen  intelligent  and  just  as  you  are,  are  not  by  any 
power  to  be  hurried  beyond  the  evidence.  Though  I  could  well 
have  wished  to  shun  this  occasion,  I  have  not  felt  at  liberty  to 
withhold  my  professional  assistance,  when  it  is  supposed  that  I 
might  be  in  some  degree  useful  in  investigating  and  discovering 


23-4  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

the  truth,  respoctiii<r  this  most  extruordiiiary  murdor.  It  has 
sotMrnnl  to  bo  a  duty  iucuuihent  on  me,  as  on  every  other  citizen, 
to  do  my  best  and  my  utmost  to  bring  to  light  the  perpetrators 
of  this  crime.  Against  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  I  can  not  have  the 
shghtest  prejudice.  I  would  not  do  him  the  smallest  injury  or  in- 
justice. But  I  do  not  aflect  to  be  indilTerent  to  the  discovery  and 
the  punishment  ol"  this  deep  guilt.  1  cheerfully  share  in  the  op- 
probrium, how  much  soever  it  may  be,  which  is  cast  on  those 
who  feel  and  manifest  an  anxious  concern  that  all  who  had  a  part 
in  ))lanning  or  a  hand  in  executing  this  deed  of  midnight  assassi- 
nation may  be  brought  to  answer  for  their  enormous  guilt  at  the 
bar  of  public  justice.  Gentlemen,  it  is  a  most  extraordinary  case. 
In  some  respects  it  has  hardly  a  precedent  anywhere  ;  certainly 
none  in  our  New  England  history.  This  bloody  drama  exhibited 
no  suddenly  excited  ungovernable  rage.  The  actors  in  it  were 
not  surprised  by  any  lion-like  temptation,  springing  upon  their 
virtue  and  overcoming  it,  before  resistance  could  begin.  Nor  did 
they  do  the  deed  to  glut  savage  vengeance,  or  satiate  long-settled 
and  deadly  hate.  It  was  a  cool,  calculating,  money-making  mur- 
der. It  was  all  '  hire  and  salary,  not  revenge.'  It  was  the 
weighing  of  money  against  life  ;  the  counting  out  of  so  many 
pieces  of  silver  against  so  many  ounces  of  blood. 

"  An  aged  man,  without  an  enemy  in  the  world,  in  his  own 
liousi-,  and  in  his  own  bed,  is  made  the^actim  of  a  butcherly 
murder  for  mere  pay.  Truly,  here  is  a  new  lesson  for  painters 
and  poets.  Whoever  shall  hereafter  draw  the  portrait  of  murder, 
if  he  will  show  it  as  it  has  been  exhibited  in  an  example  where 
such  example  was  last  to  have  been  looked  for,  in  the  very  bosom 
of  our  New  England  society,  let  him  not  give  it  the  grim  visage 
of  Moloch,  the  brow  knitted  by  revenge,  the  face  black  with  set- 
tled hate,  and  the  blood-shot  eye  emitting  livid  fires  of  malice. 
Let  him  draw  rather  a  decorous,  smooth-faced,  bloodless  demon  ; 
a  picture  in  repose  rather  than  in  action  ;  not  so  much  an  exam- 
ple of  human  nature  in  its  depravity  and  in  its  paroxysms  of 
crime  as  an  infernal  nature,  a  fiend,  iu  the  ordinary  display  and 
development  of  his  character. 

"  The  deed,  was  executed  with  a  degree  of  self-possession  and 
steadiness  equal  to  the  wickedness  with  which  it  was  planned. 
The  circumstances  now  clearly  in  evidence  spread  out  the  whole 
scene  before  us.     Deep  sleep  had  fallen  on  the  destined  victim. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  235 

and  on  all  beneath  his  roof.  A  healthful  old  man,  to  whom 
sleep  was  sweet,  the  first  sound  slumbers  of  the  night  held  him  in 
their  soft  though  strong  embrace.  The  assassin  enters  through 
the  window,  already  prepared,  into  an  unoccupied  apartment. 
With  noiseless  foot  he  passes  the  lonely  hall,  half  lighted  by  the 
moon ;  he  winds  up  the  ascent  of  the  stairs,  and  reaches  the  door 
of  the  chamber.  Of  this  he  moves  the  lock  by  soft  and  continued 
pressure,  till  it  turns  on  its  hinges  without  noise,  and  he  enters 
and  beholds  his  victim  before  him.  The  room  was  uncommonly 
open  to  the  admission  of  light.  The  face  of  the  innocent  sleeper 
was  turned  from  the  murderer,  and  the  beams  of  the  moon  resting 
on  the  gray  locks  of  the  aged  temple,  showed  him  where  to  strike. 
The  fatal  blow  is  given  I  and  the  victim  passes,  without  a  strug- 
gle or  a  motion,  from  the  repose  of  sleep  to  the  repose  of  death  I 
It  is  the  assassin's  purpose  to  make  sure  work  ;  and  he  yet  plies 
the  dagger,  though  it  was  obvious  that  life  had  been  destroyed 
by  the  blow  of  the  bludgeon.  He  even  raises  the  aged  arm,  that 
he  may  not  fail  in  his  aim  at  the  heart,  and  replaces  it  again  over 
the  wounds  of  the  poniard.  To  finish  the  picture,  he  explores  the 
wrist  for  the  pulse.  He  feels  for  it,  and  ascertains  that  it  beats 
no  longer  I  It  is  accomplished.  The  deed  is  done.  He  retreats, 
retraces  his  step  to  the  window,  passes  out  through  it  as  he  came 
in,  and  escapes.  He  has  done  the  murder — no  eye  has  seen  him, 
no  ear  has  heard  him.     The  secret  is  his  own,  and  it  is  safe. 

"  Ah  !  gentlemen,  that  was  a  dreadful  mistake.  Such  a  secret 
can  be  safe  nowhere.  The  whole  creation  of  God  has  neither 
nook  nor  corner  where  the  guilty  can  bestow  it  and  say  that  it  is 
safe.  Not  to  speak  of  that  Eye  which  glances  through  all  dis- 
guises, and  beholds  every  thing  as  in  the  splendor  of  noon,  such 
secrets  of  guilt  are  never  safe  from  detection,  even  by  men.  True 
it  is,  generally  speaking,  that  'murder  will  out.'  True  it  is,  that 
Providence  hath  so  ordained,  and  doth  so  govern  things,  that 
those  who  break  the  great  law  of  heaven  by  shedding  man's 
blood,  seldom  succeed  in  avoiding  discovery.  Especially  in  a 
case  exciting  so  much  attention  as  tliis,  discovery  must  come,  and 
will  come  sooner  or  later.  A  thousand  eyes  turn  at  once  to  ex- 
plore every  man,  every  thing,  every  circumstance  connected  with 
the  time  and  place;  a  thousand  ears  catch  every  whisper;  a 
thousand  excited  minds  intensely  dwell  on  the  scene,  shedding  all 
their  light,  and  ready  to  kindle  the  slightest  circumstance  into  a 


*i3fi  kECOLLf:CTIONS    OF 

blaze  of  discovery.  Meant  inie,  the  puilty  soul  can  not  keep  its 
own  secret.  It  is  false  to  ilselt  ;  or  rather  it  feels  an  irresistible 
impulse  of  conscience  to  be  true  to  itself  It  labors  under  its 
guilty  possession,  and  knows  not  what  to  do  with  it.  The  human 
heart  was  not  made  for  the  residence  of  such  an  inhabitant.  It 
tiiids  itself  preyed  on  by  a  torment  which  it  dares  not  ackuowl- 
edge  to  God  or  man.  A  vulture  is  devouring  it,  and  it  can  ask 
no  sympathy  or  assistance  either  from  heaven  or  earth.  The 
secret  which  the  murderer  possesses  soon  comes  to  possess  him, 
and  like  the  evil  spirits  of  which  we  read,  it  overcomes  him  and 
leads  him  whithersoever  it  will.  He  feels  it  beating  at  his  heart, 
rising  to  his  throat,  and  demanding  disclosure.  He  thinks  the 
whole  world  sees  it  in  his  face,  I'eads  it  in  his  eyes,  and  almost 
hears  its  workings  in  the  very  silence  of  his  thoughts.  It  has  be- 
come his  master.  It  betrays  his  discretion,  it  breaks  down  his 
courage,  it  conquers  his  prudence.  When  suspicions  from  with- 
out begin  to  embarrass  him,  and  the  net  of  circumstances  to  en- 
tangle him,  the  fatal  spcret  struggles  with  still  greater  violence  to 
burst  ibrth.  It  must  be  confessed,  it  ^cill  be  confessed,  there  is  no 
refuge  from  confession  but  suicide,  and  suicide  is  confession. 

"  Much  has  been  said  on  this  occasion  of  the  excitement  which 
has  existed  and  still  exists,  and  of  the  extraordinary  measures 
taken  to  discover  and  punish  the  giiilty.  No  doubt  there  has 
been  and  is  much  excitement,  and  strange  indeed  were  it  had  it 
been  otherwise.  Should  not  all  the  peaceable  and  well-disposed 
naturally  feel  concerned,  and  naturally  exert  themselves  to  bring 
to  punishment  the  authors  of  this  secret  assassination  ?  Did  you, 
gentlemen,  sleep  quite  as  quietly  in  your  beds  after  this  murder 
as  before  ?  Was  it  not  a  case  for  rewards,  for  meetings,  for 
committees,  for  the  united  eflbrts  of  all  the  good,  to  find  out  a 
band  of  murderous  conspirators,  of  midnight  ruffians,  and  to  bring 
them  to  the  bar  of  justice  and  law  ?  If  this  be  excitement,  is  it 
an  unnatural  or  an  improper  excitement? 

"  It  seems  to  me,  gentlemen,  that  there  are  appearances  of  an- 
other feeling,  of  a  very  different  nature  and  character,  not  very 
extensive,  I  would  hope,  but  still  there  is  too  much  evidence  of 
its  existence.  Such  is  human  nature,  that  some  persons  lose 
their  abhorrence  of  crime,  in  their  admiration  of  its  magnificent 
exhibitions.  Ordinary  vice  is  reprobated  by  them,  but  extraor- 
dinary guilt,  exquisite  wickedness,  the  high  flights  and  poetry  of 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  237 

crime,  seize  on  the  imagination,  and  lead  them  to  forget  tlie 
depth  of  the  guilt  in  admiration  of  the  excellence  of  the  perform- 
ance, or  the  unequaled  atrocity  of  the  purpose.  There  are  tliose 
in  our  day  who  have  made  great  use  of  this  infirmity  of  our  na- 
ture ;  and  by  means  of  it  done  infinite  injury  to  the  cause  of  good 
morals.  They  have  afTected  not  only  the  taste,  but,  I  fear,  also 
the  principles  of  the  young,  the  heedless,  and  the  imaginative,  by 
the  exhibition  of  interesting  and  beautiful  monsters.  They  ren- 
der depravity  attractive,  sometimes  by  the  polish  of  its  manners, 
and  sometimes  by  its  very  extravagance  ;  and  study  to  show  off 
crime  under  all  the  advantages  of  cleverness  and  dexterity. 
Gentlemen,  this  is  an  extraordinary  murder,  but  it  is  still  a  mur- 
der. We  are  not  to  lose  ourselves  in  wonder  at  its  origin,  or  in 
gazing  on  its  cool  and  skillful  execution.  We  are  to  detect  and 
punish  it ;  and  while  we  proceed  with  caution  against  the 
prisoner,  and  are  to  be  sure  that  we  do  not  visit  on  his  head  the 
offenses  of  others,  we  are  yet  to  consider  that  we  are  dealing  with 
a  case  of  most  atrocious  crime,  which  has  not  the  slightest  cir- 
cumstance about  it  to  soften  its  enoi-mity.  It  is  murder,  deliber- 
ate, concerted,  malicious  murder. 

*  *  #  *  * 

"  It  is  said  '  that  laws  are  made,  not  for  the  punishment  of  the 
guilty,  but  for  the  protection  of  the  innocent.'  This  is  not  quite 
accurate  perhaps,  but  if  so,  we  hope  they  will  be  so  administered 
as  to  give  that  protection.  But  who  are  the  innocent  whom  the 
law  would  protect  ?  Gentlemen,  Joseph  White  was  innocent. 
They  are  mnocent,  who  having  lived  in  the  fear  of  God  through 
the  day,  wish  to  sleep  in  peace  through  the  night  in  their  own 
beds.  The  law  is  established  that  those  who  live  quietly  may 
sleep  quietly,  that  they  who  do  no  harm  may  feel  none.  The 
gentleman  can  think  of  none  that  are  innocent  except  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar — not  yet  convicted.  Is  a  proved  conspirator  to  murder 
innocent  ?  Are  the  Crowninshields  and  the  Knapps  innocent  ? 
What  is  innocence  ?  How  deep-stained  with  blood,  how  reckless 
in  crime,  how  sunk  in  depravity  may  it  be,  and  yet  remain  inno- 
cence ?  The  law  is  made,  if  we  would  speak  with  entire  accu- 
racy, to  protect  the  innocent  by  punishing  the  guilty.  But  there 
are  those  iimocent  out  of  court  as  well  as  in  ;  innocent  citizens 
never  suspected  of  crime,  as  well  as  innocent  prisoners  at  the  bar. 

"  The  criminal  law  is  not  founded  on  a  principle  of  vengeance. 


238  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

It  docs  not  punish  that  it  may  inflict  sufferinj^.  The  humanilj 
of  the  law  i'cels  and  rog^rets  every  paiu  it  causes,  every  hour  ol' 
restraint  it  imposes,  and  more  deeply  still  every  life  it  forfeits. 
But  it  uses  evil  as  the  means  of  preventing  greater  evil.  It  seeks 
to  deter  from  crime  by  the  example  of  punishment.  This  is  its 
true,  and  only  true  main  object.  It  restrains  the  liberty  of  the 
few  ollenders,  that  the  many  who  do  not  offend  may  enjoy  their 
own  liberty.  It  forfeits  the  life  of  the  ofl'ender  that  other  murders 
may  not  be  committed.  The  law  might  open  the  jails  and  at 
once  set  free  all  prisoners  accused  of  ofienses ;  and  it  ought  to  do 
so  if  it  could  be  made  certain  that  no  other  offense  would  here- 
after be  committed.  Because  it  punishes,  not  to  satisfy  any  desire 
to  inflict  pain,  but  simply  to  prevent  the  repetition  of  crimes. 
When  the  guilty,  therefore,  are  not  punished,  the  law  has  so  far 
failed  of  its  purpose ;  the  safety  of  the  innocent  is  so  far  endan- 
gered. Every  unpunished  murder  takes  away  something  from  the 
security  of  every  man's  life.  And  whenever  a  jury,  through  whimsi- 
cal and  ill-founded  scruples,  sufler  the  guilty  to  escape,  they  make 
themselves  answerable  for  the  augmented  danger  of  the  innocent." 

[Then  follow  nearly  forty  closely  printed  octavo  pages  of  the 
most  minute  and  ablest  dissection  of  eveiy  part  of  the  case  ;  the 
most  crushing  answer  to  the  opposite  counsel ;  and  the  most 
searching  and  subtile  analysis  of  the  e^^dence.  Every  scene  of  the 
tragedy,  from  the  first  conception  of  the  plot  to  the  awful  catas- 
trophe, passes  before  us  as  if  we  had  been  present  bodily.  We 
are  eye  and  ear-witnesses  to  every  incident.  Mr.  Webster  winds 
up  his  speech  with  the  following  impressive  peroration  ] 

"  Gentlemen,  I  have  gone  through  with  the  evidence  in  this 
case,  and  have  endeavored  to  state  it  plainly  and  fairly  before 
you.  I  think  there  are  conclusions  to  be  drawn  from  it,  which 
you  can  not  doubt.  I  think  you  can  not  doubt  that  there  was  a 
conspiracy  formed  for  the  purpose  of  committing  this  murder,  and 
who  the  conspirators  were. 

"  That  you  can  not  doubt  that  the  Crowninshields  and  the 
Knapps  were  parties  in  this  conspiracy. 

"  That  you  can  not  doubt  that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  knew 
that  the  murder  was  to  be  done  on  the  6th  of  April. 

"  That  you  can  not  doubt  that  the  murderers  of  Captain  White 
were  the  suspicious  persons  seen  in  and  about  Brown-street  on 
that  night. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  239 

"  That  you  can  not  doubt  that  Richard  Crowninshield  was  the 
perpetrator  of  that  crime. 

"  That  you  can  not  doubt  that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  was  in 
Brown-street  on  that  night. 

"  If  there,  then  it  must  be  by  agreement,  to  countenance,  to 
aid  the  perpetrator  ;  and  if  so,  then  he  is  guilty  as  a  principal. 

"  Gentlemen, — Your  whole  concern  should  be  to  do  your  duty, 
and  leave  consequences  to  take  care  of  themselves.  You  will  re- 
ceive the  law  from  the  court.  Your  verdict,  it  is  true,  may  en- 
danger the  prisoner's  life,  but  then  it  is  to  save  other  lives.  If 
the  prisoner's  guilt  has  been  shown  and  proved  beyond  all  rea- 
sonable doubt,  you  will  convict  him.  If  such  reasonable  doubts 
of  guilt  still  remain,  you  will  acquit  him.  You  are  the  judges 
of  the  whole  case.  You  owe  a  duty  to  the  public,  as  well  as 
to  the  prisoner  at  the  bar.  You  can  not  pretend  to  be  wiser 
than  the  law.  Your  duty  is  a  plain,  straightforward  one.  Doubt- 
less, we  would  all  judge  him  in  mercy.  Toward  him,  as  an  in- 
dividual, the  law  inculcates  no  hostility  ;  but  toward  him,  if 
proved  to  be  a  murderer,  the  law,  and  the  oaths  yovi  have  taken, 
and  public  justice,  demand  that  you  do  j'our  duty. 

"  With  consciences  satisfied  with  the  discharge  of  duty,  no  con- 
sequences can  harm  you.  There  is  no  evil  that  we  can  not  either 
face  or  fly  from,  but  the  consciousness  of  duty  disregarded. 

"  A  sense  of  duty  pursues  us  ever.  It  is  omnipresent  like  the 
Deity.  If  we  take  to  ourselves  the  wings  of  the  morning  and 
dwell  in  the  utmost  parts  of  the  seas,  duty  performed  or  duty 
violated  is  still  with  us  for  our  happiness  or  our  misery.  If  we 
say  the  darkness  shall  cover  us,  in  the  darkness  as  in  the  light 
our  obligations  are  yet  with  us.  We  can  not  e.^cape  their  power 
nor  fly  fi'om  their  presence.  They  are  with  us  in  this  life,  will 
be  with  us  at  its  clo,se  ;  and  in  that  scene  of  inconceivable  solem- 
nity which  lies  yet  farther  onward,  we  shall  still  find  ourselves 
surrounded  by  the  consciousness  of  duty,  to  pain  us  wherever  it 
has  been  violated,  and  to  console  us  so  far  as  God  may  have 
given  us  grace  to  perform  it." 

There  is  no  need  to  enhance  the  merit  of  eloquence  like  this  ; 
Init  I  recollect  to  have  heard  that  this  immense  effort  was  made 
immediately  after  a  journey  of  unparalleled  rapidity  and  fatigue 
which  would  have  completely  exhausted  the  energy  of  any  man 
but  Mr.  Webster. 


240  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 


XIX. 

OLD    AUTHORS. 

BEN    JONSOX. 

"  0  RARE  Ben  Jonson  I"'  so  said  his  cotemporaries,  and  those 
cotemporaries  the  greatest  dramatic  poets,  the  greatest  poets  of 
any  age  or  clime.  "  0  rare  Ben  Jonson  !"  says  his  tomb  in 
ArVestminster  Abbey  ;  "  0  rare  Ben  Jonson,"  echo  we.  But  I 
doubt  much  whether  our  praises  be  not  founded  on  very  diiler- 
ent  quaUties  from  those  which  were  hailed  with  such  acclaim  by 
the  marvelous  assembly  of  wits  who  congregated  at  the  "  Mer- 
maid." Hear  what  Beaumont,  in  his  celebrated  epistle  to  Jonson, 
says  of  that  fair  company.     He  writes  to  him  from  the  country  : 

"  Methinks  the  little  wit  I  had  is  lost 
Since  I  saw  you ;  for  wit  is  like  a  rest 
Held  up  at  Tennis,  which  men  do  the  best 
With  the  best  gamesters.     What  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  '  Mermaid!'  heard  words  that  have  been 
So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtile  flame, 
As  if  that  every  one,  from  whom  they  came, 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest, 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  fSst 
Of  his  dull  life  ;  then,  when  there  hath  been  shown 
Wit  able  enough  to  justify  the  town 
For  three  days  past ;  wit  that  might  warrant  be 
For  the  whole  city  to  talk  foolishly 
Till  that  were  canceled;  and  when  that  was  gone, 
We  left  an  air  behind  us,  which  alone 
Was  able  to  make  the  two  next  companies 
Right  witty  ;  though  but  downright  fools,  mere  wise." 

These  men,  admirable  judges  although  they  were,  seem  to 
have  regarded  with  what  we  can  not  but  think  an  over-admira- 
tion the  art  which  wanted  the  crowning  triumph  of  looking  like 
nature,  and  the  learning,  whieli  displayed  rather  than  pervading, 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  241 

overlaj's  and  encumbers  his  finely-constructed  but  heavy  and  un- 
wieldy plays.  We  of  this  age,  a  little  too  careless  perhaps  of 
learned  labor,  would  give  a  whole  wilderness  of  Catilines  and 
Poetasters,  and  even  of  Alchemists  and  Volpones,  for  another  score 
of  the  exquisite  lyrics  which  are  scattered  carelessly  through  the 
plays  and  masques'^which — strange  contrast  with  the  rugged 
verse  in  which  they  are  imbedded — seem  to  have  burst  into  being 
at  a  stroke,  just  as  the  evening  primrose  flings  open  her  fair 
petals  at  the  close  of  the  day.  Lovelier  songs  were  never  writ- 
ten than  these  wild  and  irregular  ditties.     Here  are  some  of  them. 


HYMN   TO  DIANA,  IN  "  CYNTHIA'S  REVELS." 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair. 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  car, 
State  in  wonted  manner  keep. 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light. 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose  ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear,  when  day  did  close. 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight. 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crystal  shining  quiver ; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 
Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever. 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

SONG,  FROM  THE  SAME. 

Slow,  slow  fresh  fount,  keep  lime  with  my  salt  tears, 

Yet  slower,  yet,  0  faintly,  gentle  springs  ! 
List  to  the  heavy  part  the  music  bears, 

Woe  weeps  out  her  division  when  she  sings. 
Droop  herbs  and  flowers, 
Fall  grief  in  showers. 
Our  beauties  are  not  ours. 
0  I  could  still 
(Like  melting  snow  upon  some  craggy  hill) 

Drop,  drop,  droj),  drop. 
Since  summer's  pride  is  now  a  withered  daffodil. 
L 


212  KECOL  LECTIONS    OF 


SONG  OF  NIGHT,  IN  THE  MASQUE  OF  "THE  VISION  OF 
DELIGHT." 

Break,  Phantasie,  fVom  tliy  cave  of  cloud. 

And  spread  thy  purple  wings  ; 
Now  all  thy  figures  are  allowed, 
And  various  shapes  of  things. 
Create  of  airy  forms  a  stream, 
It  must  have  blood,  and  naught  of  phlegm  ; 
And  though  it  be  a  waking  dream. 
Chorus.    Yet  let  it  like  an  odor  rise 
To  all  the  senses  liere, 
And  fall  like  sleep  upon  their  eyes, 
Or  music  in  their  ear. 


CHORUS,  FROM  THE  SAME. 

In  curious  knots  and  mazes  so. 
The  spring  at  first  was  taught  to  go ; 
And  Zephyr,  when  he  came  to  woo 
His  Flora,  had  their  motions  too : 
And  thus  did  Venus  learn  to  lead 
The  Idalian  brawls,  and  so  to  tread 
As  if  the  wind,  not  she,  did  walk. 
Nor  pressed  a  flower,  nor  bowed  a  stalk. 

SONG,  IN  "  THE   MASQUE   OF   BEAUTY. 

So  Beauty  on  the  waters  stood 
When  Love  had  severed  Earth  from  Flood ! 
So,  when  he  parted  Air  from  Fire, 
He  did  with  concord  all  inspire  ! 
And  then  a  motion  he  them  taught 
That  elder  than  himself  was  thought; 
Which  thought  was  yet  the  child  of  earth, 
For  Love  is  elder  than  his  birth. 

SONG,  FROM  "  THE   SILENT  WOMAN." 

(A  lesson,  dear  ladies.) 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast ; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed : 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  243 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace  ; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free  : 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me, 

Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art ; 

They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

FROM   A  CELEBRATION  OF   CHARIS. 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 

AVherein  my  lady  rideth  ; 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty, 
And  enamored  do  wish  that  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side 
Thorough  swords,  thorough  seas  wheresoever  she  would  ride. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  love's  world  compriseth  ! 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  love's  star,  when  it  riseth ! 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her  ! 
And  from  her  arched  brows  such  a  grace 

Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 
All  the  gain,  all  the  good,  of  the  elements'  strife  ! 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 

Before  rude  hands  have  touched  itl 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  o'  the  snow 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  if? 
Ha'  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver. 

Or  swan's  down  ever? 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  brier  1 

Or  the  hand  in  the  fire? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  1 
0  so  white !  0  so  soft  1   0  so  sweet  is  she ! 


SONG. 

Oh  !    do  not  worship  with  those  eyes, 
Lest  I  be  sick  with  seeing  1 

Nor  cast  them  down,  but  let  them  rise. 
Lest  shame  destroy  their  being. 


24-1  ■  KEGOLLECTIONS    OF 

Oil !  be  not  afigry  witli  those  fires, 

For  tlien  tlu'ir  threats  will  kill  me; 
Nor  look  too  kind  on  my  desires, 

For  then  my  hopes  will  sjiill  me. 
Oh !  do  not  steep  them  in  thy  tears, 

Far  so  will  sorrow  slay  me  ; 
Nor  spread  them,  as  distract  with  fears, 

Mine  own  enough  betray  me. 

SONG  TO   CELIA. 

I  should  hardly  perhaps  have  thought  of  inserting  a  song  so 
familiar  to  every  ear  as  the  following,  had  I  not,  in  turning  over 
Jonson's  huge  volume,  been  reminded  of  a  circumstance  connected 
with  it  which  greatly  startled  me  at  the  moment.  Milton  talks 
of  airs  "married  to  immortal  verse  ;"  but  it  should  seem  that 
there  is  no  marriage  without  an  occasional  divorce  ;  for  the  last 
time  I  heard  the  well-known  melody  which  belongs  to  this  fine 
Anacreontic,  as  indissolubly  as  its  own  peculiar  perfume  to  a 
flower,  was  in  an  Independent  chapel,  where  widely  different 
words — the  words  of  a  hymn — were  adapted  to  the  air.  It  was 
John  Wesley,  I  believe,  who  said  that  he  saw  no  reason  why 
Satan  should  have  all  the  best  tunes  ;  and  I  should  not  lightly 
impugn  the  wisdom  of  any  axiom  of  John  Wesley,  who  under- 
stood human  nature  as  well  as  most  men.  But  in  this  instance, 
such  is  the  force  of  association,  that  I  can  scarcely  say  how  strong- 
ly I  felt  the  discrepancy,  all  the  more  for  the  impressive  plain- 
ness and  simplicity  of  the  Presbyterian  mode  of  worship,  and  the 
earnest  eloquence  of  the  white-haired  preacher.  The  sermon  was 
half  over  before  I  had  recovered  the  tone  of  feeling  proper  to  the 
place  and  the  occasion. 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes. 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup. 

And  111  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Must  surely  be  divine  ; 
But  might  I  of  Love's  nectar  sup 

I  would  not  change  for  wine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath. 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee, 
As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  245 

But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me. 
Since  when  it  grows  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  bat  thee. 

FIRST  SPEECH  IN  "  THE  SAD  SHEPHERD." 

Enter  fficLAMONE. 

(Egla.  Here  she  was  wont  to  go  I  and  here !  and  here ! 
Just  where  those  daisies,  pinks,  and  violets  grow : 
The  world  may  find  the  spring  by  following  her, 
For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne'er  left. 
Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass, 
Or  shake  the  downy  blowball  from  his  stalk 
But  like  the  soft  west  wind  she  shot  along. 
And  where  she  went  the  flowers  took  thickest  root. 
As  she  had  sowed  them  with  her  odorous  foot. 

This  delightful  pastoral  on  the  story  of  Robin  Hood  and  Maid 
Marian  is  unhappily  unfinished.  Scarcely  half  is  written,  and 
even  that  wants  the  author's  last  touches. 

SPEECH  OF  MAIA,  IN  "  THE  PENATES." 

If  every  pleasure  were  distilled 
Of  every  flower  in  every  field, 
And  all  that  Hybla's  hives  do  yield. 
Were  into  one  broad  mazer  filled; 
If  thereto  added  all  the  gums 
And  spice  that  from  Panchaia  comes. 
The  odor  that  Hydasper  lends. 
Or  Phoenix  proves  before  she  ends ; 
If  all  the  air  my  Flora  drew. 
Or  spirit  that  Zei)hyr  ever  blew. 
Were  put  therein ;  and  all  the  dew 
That  every  rosy  morning  knew ; 
Yet  all  diffused  upon  this  bower, 
To  make  one  sweet  detaining  hour. 
Were  much  too  little  for  the  grace 
And  honor  you  vouchsafe  the  place. 
But  if  you  please  to  come  again. 
We  vow  we  will  not  then  with  vain 
And  empty  pastimes  entertain 
Your  so  desired,  though  grieved,  j)ain. 
For  we  will  have  the  wanton  Fawns, 
That  frisking  skij)  about  the  lawns. 
The  Panisks,  and  the  Sylvans  rude, 
Satyrs,  and  all  that  multitude, 


246  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

To  dance  tlieir  wilder  rounds  about, 

And  cleave  the  air  with  many  a  shout, 

As  thoy  would  hunt  poor  Echo  out 

Of  yonder  valley,  who  doth  flout 

Their  rustic  noise.     To  visit  whom 

You  shall  behold  whole  bevies  come 

Of  gaudy  nymphs,  whose  tender  calls 

Well  tuned  unto  the  many  falls 

Of  sweet  and  several  sliding  rills, 

That  stream  from  tops  of  those  less  hills, 

Sound  like  so  many  silver  quills, 

When  Zephyr  them  with  music  fills. 

For  them  Favorius  here  shall  blow 

New  flowers,  that  you  shall  see  to  grow. 

Of  which  each  hand  a  part  shall  tiike, 

And,  for  your  heads,  fresh  garlands  make 

AVherewith,  while  they  your  temples  round, 

An  air  of  several  birds  shall  sound 

An  lo  Pffian,  that  shall  drown 

The  acclamations  at  your  crown. 
All  this,  and  more  than  I  have  gift  of  saying. 
May  voTVS,  so  you  will  oft  come  here  a  Maying. 

EPITAPH  ON  THE  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE. 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother; 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another 
Learn'd  and  fair,  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

After  all  we  take  leave  of  him,  transcribing  yet  another  exqui- 
site song,  and  echoing  our  first  words,  0  rare  Ben  Jensen  I 

FROM  THE  MASQUE  OF  "  THE  GIPSYS  METAMORPHOSED." 

To  the  old,  long  life  and  treasure ; 

To  the  young,  all  health  and  pleasure  ; 

To  the  fair,  their  face 

With  eternal  grace. 
And  the  soul  to  be  loved  at  leisure. 

To  the  witty,  all  clear  mirrors; 
To  the  foolish,  their  dark  errors ; 

To  the  loving  sprite 

A  secure  delight ; 
To  the  jealous  his  own  false  terrors. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  247 


XX. 

FASHIONABLE    POETS. 

WILLIAM    ROBERT    SPENCER. 

Grandson  of  two  dukes,  nursed  in  the  very  lap  of  fashion,  and 
coming  into  life  at  the  time  of  all  others  when  wit  and  fancy, 
and  the  lighter  graces  of  poetr}',  were  most  cordially  welcomed 
by  the  higher  circles — at  a  time  when  the  star  of  Sheridan  was 
still  in  the  ascendant,  and  that  of  Moore  just  appearing  on  the 
horizon — William  Spencer  may  be  regarded  as  much  the  repre- 
sentative of  a  class,  as  John  Clare,  or  Robert  Burns.  The  style 
of  his  verse  eminently  airy,  polished,  and  graceful,  as  well  as  his 
personal  qualities,  combined  to  render  him  the  idol  of  that  society 
which,  by  common  consent,  we  are  content  to  call  the  best.  His 
varied  accomplishments  enlivened  a  country-house,  his  brilliant 
wit  formed  the  delight  of  a  dinner  table  ;  while  his  singular 
charm  of  manner,  and  perhaps  of  character,  gave  a  permanency 
to  his  social  success  by  converting  the  admirers  of  an  evening  into 
friends  for  life.  With  all  these  genial  triumphs,  however,  we 
can  not  look  over  the  little  volume  of  graceful  verse  which  is  all 
that  now  remains  of  so  splendid  a  reputation,  without  feeling 
that  the  author  was  born  for  better,  higher,  more  enduring  pur- 
poses ;  that  the  charming  trifler,  whose  verses  forty  years  ago 
every  lady  knew  by  heart,  and  which  are  now  well  nigh  forgot- 
ten, ought  not  to  have  wasted  his  high  endowments  in  wreathing 
garlands  for  festivals — ought  not,  above  all,  to  have  gone  on  from 
youth  to  age,  leading  the  melancholy  life  which  is  all  holyday. 

Nevertheless  we  must  accept  these  verses  for  such  as  they  are, 
just  as  we  admire  unquestioning  the  wing  of  a  butterfly,  or  the 
petal  of  a  flower  ;  and  in  their  kind  they  are  exquisite.  Look  at 
the  fancy  and  the  finish  of  these  stanzas  I 


2-iS  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


TO  THE  LADV  ANNE  HAMILTON.* 

Too  late  I  stayed,  forgive  the  crime, 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours ; 
How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 

That  only  treads  on  flowers  ! 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 

The  ebbing  of  his  glass, 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks 

That  dazzle  as  they  passl 

Ah !  who  to  sober  measurement 

Time's  happy  swiftness  brings. 
When  birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 

Their  i)Iumage  for  his  wings  1 

In  the  next  extract  there  is  an  unexpected  touch  of  sentiment 
mixed  with  its  playfulness,  that  is  singularly  captivating. 

GOOD-BYE  AND  HOW-D'-YE-DO. 

One  day  Good-bye  met  How-d'-ye-do, 

Too  close  to  shnn  saluting, 
But  soon  the  rival  sisters  flew 

From  kissing  to  disputing. 

'■  Away."  says  How-d'-ye-do  ;  "  your  mien 

Appalls  my  cheerful  nature, 
No  name  so  sad  as  yours  is  seen 

In  sorrow's  nomenclature. 

'•  Whene'er  I  give  one  sunshine  hour, 

Your  cloud  comes  o'er  to  shade  it: 
Where'er  I  plant  one  bosom  flower, 

Your  mildew  drops  to  fade  it. 

"  Ere  How-d'-ye-do  has  tuned  each  tongue 

To  Hope's  delightful  measure, 
Good-bye  in  Friendship's  ear  has  rung 

The  knell  of  parting  pleasure  ! 

"  From  sorrows  past  my  chemic  skill 

Draws  smiles  of  consolation. 
While  you  from  present  joys  distill 

The  tears  of  separation." 

*  Very  sweetly  mated  with  one  of  the  sweetest  old  Irish  airs,  "  The  Yel- 
low Horse." 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  249 

Good-bye  replied,  "  Your  statement's  true, 

And  well  your  cause  you've  pleaded ; 
But  pray  who'd  think  of  How-d'-ye-do, 

Unless  Good-bye  preceded  1 

"  Without  my  prior  influence, 

Could  yours  have  ever  flourish'd  1 
And  can  your  hand  one  flower  dispense. 

But  those  my  tears  have  nourish'd  1 

"  How  oft,  if  at  the  court  of  Love 

Concealment  be  the  fashion, 
When  How-d'-ye-do  has  fail'd  to  move, 

Good-bye  reveals  the  passion ! 

"  How  oft,  when  Cupid's  fires  decline, 

As  every  heart  remembers. 
One  sigh  of  mine,  and  only  mine. 

Revives  the  dying  embers ! 

"  Go,  bid  the  timid  lover  choose, 

And  I'll  resign  my  charter. 
If  he  for  ten  kind  How-d'-ye-does 

One  kind  Good-bye  would  barter ! 

"  From  love  and  friendship's  kindred  source 

We  both  derive  existence. 
And  they  would  both  lose  half  their  force, 

Without  our  joint  assistance. 

"  'Tis  well  the  world  our  merit  knows. 

Since  time,  there's  no  denying. 
One  half  in  How-d'-ye-doing  goes, 

And  t'  other  in  Good-byeing !" 

Nobody  has  told  the  tragedy  of  Beth-Gelert  so  well  as  Mr. 
Spencer,  in  his  simple  but  elegant  ballad.  I  do  not  know  if 
many  persons  partake  my  feeling  respecting  those  stories  of  which 
the  animal  world  are  the  heroes,  but  to  me  they  seem  more 
touching  than  grander  histories  of  men  and  women.  Dumb 
creatures — to  use  that  phrase  of  the  common  people,  which 
makes  in  its  two  homely  words  so  true  an  appeal  to  our  protec- 
tion, and  our  pity — dumb  creatures  are  in  their  love  so  faithful, 
so  patient  in  their  sufferings,  so  submissive  under  wrong,  so 
powerless  for  remonstrance  or  for  redress,  that  we  take  their  part 
against  the  human  brutes,  their  oppressors,  as  naturally  and  al- 
most as  vehemently  as  we  do  that  of  Philoctetes  against  Ulysses, 

L* 


2'i0  KKCOL  LECTIONS    OF 

or  oi'  Lo;ir  apaiiist  (loiieril.  I  am  not  smo  that  I  do  not  carry 
niv  sympathy  still  farllu'v.  In  the  famous  story  of  the  Falcon, 
tor  instance,  in  Boccaccio,  where  a  lover,  ruined  by  the  charges 
to  which  he  puts  himself  in  courting  an  ungrateful  mistress,  and 
owing  his  very  existence  to  the  game  struck  down  for  him  by  a 
favorite  hawk,  kills  the  poor  bird  to  furnish  forth  a  dinner  for 
the  haughty  beauty  when  she  at  last  comes  to  visit  him,  I  never 
could  help  thinking  that  the  enamored  cavalier  made  a  very  bad 
exchange  when  he  lost  the  falcon,  and  won  the  lady.  His  con- 
science must  have  pricked  him  all  his  life.  He  had  not  even,  so 
far  as  we  hear,  the  consolation,  such  as  it  is,  of  erecting  a  monu- 
ment to  the  memory  of  his  murdered  favorite,  on  which,  like 
Llewelyn,  to  "  hang  his  horn  and  spear." 

BETH   GELERT;   OR,   THE   GRAVE   OF   THE   GREYHOUND. 

The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound, 

And  cheerily  smiled  the  morn ; 
And  many  a  brach  and  many  a  hound 

Obeyed  Llewelyn's  horn. 

And  still  he  blew  a  louder  blast 

And  gave  a  lustier  cheer : 
"  Come,  Gelert,  come,  wer"t  never  last 

Llewelyn's  horn  to  hear ! 

'•  Oh,  where  does  faithful  Gelert  roam. 

The  flower  of  all  his  race; 
So  time,  so  brave,  a  lamb  at  home, 

A  lion  in  the  chase  1" 

'Twas  onlj'  at  Llewelyn's  board 

The  foithful  Gelert  fed ; 
He  watched,  he  served,  he  cheered  his  lord, 

And  sentineled  his  bed. 

In  sooth  he  was  a  peerless  hound, 

The  gift  of  royal  John  ; 
But  now  no  Gelert  could  be  found, 

And  all  the  chase  rode  on. 

And  now,  as  o'er  the  rocks  and  dells, 

The  gallant  chidings  rise. 
All  Snowden's  craggy  chaos  yells 

The  many-mingled  cries. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  251 

That  day  Llewelyn  little  loved 

The  chase  of  hart  and  hare; 
And  scant  and  small  the  booty  proved, 

For  Gelert  was  not  there. 

Unpleased  Llewelyn  homeward  hied  : 

When  near  the  portal  seat, 
His  truant  Gelert  he  espied 

Bounding  his  lord  to  greet. 

But  when  he  gained  the  castle  door 

Aghast  the  chieftain  stood ; 
The  hound  all  o'er  was  smeared  with  gore. 

His  lips,  his  fangs,  ran  blood. 

Llewelyn  gazed  with  fierce  surprise ; 

Unused  such  looks  to  meet, 
His  favorite  checked  his  joyful  guise. 

And  crouched  and  licked  his  feet. 

Onward  in  haste  LleweljTi  passed. 

And  on  went  Gelert  too ; 
And  still  where'er  his  eyes  he  cast 

Fresh  blood-gouts  shocked  his  view. 

O'erturned  his  infant's  bed  he  found, 

With  blood-stained  covert  rent; 
And  all  around  the  walls  and  grotmd 

With  recent  blood  besprent. 

He  called  his  child — no  voice  replied — 

He  searched  with  terror  wild ; 
Blood,  blood  he  found  on  every  side. 

But  nowhere  found  his  child. 

"  Hell-hound  !  my  boy's  by  thee  devoured  !" 

The  frantic  father  cried ; 
And  to  the  hilt  his  vengeful  sword 

He  plunged  in  Gelcrt's  side. 

His  suppliant  looks  as  prone  he  fell 

No  pity  could  impart ; 
But  still  his  Gelert's  dying  yell 

Passed  heavy  o'er  his  heart. 

Aroused  by  Gelert's  dying  yell 

Some  slumbercr  wakened  nigh  : 
What  words  the  j)aront's  joy  could  tell 

To  hear  his  infant's  cry ! 


252  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Concealed  bencntli  a  tumbled  heap 

His  hun-ied  search  had  missed  : 
All  glowing  from  his  rosy  sleep 

Tho  cherub  boy  he  kissed. 

Nor  scathe  had  ho,  nor  harm,  nor  dread : 

But  the  same  couch  beneath 
Lay  a  gaunt  wolf,  all  torn  and  dead, 

Tremendous  still  in  death. 

Ah,  what  was  then  Llewelyn's  pain ! 

For  now  the  truth  was  clear. 
His  gallant  hound  the  wolf  had  slain 

To  save  Llewelyn's  heir. 

Vain,  vain  was  all  Llewelyn's  woe  : 

"  Best  of  thy  kind,  Adieu  ! 
The  frantic  blow  that  laid  thee  low 

This  heart  shall  ever  rue !" 

And  now  a  gallant  tomb  they  raise, 

With  costly  sculptures  decked, 
And  marbles  storied  with  his  praise 

Poor  Gelert's  bones  protect. 

There  never  could  the  spearman  pass, 

Or  forester,  unmoved ; 
There  oft  the  tear-besprinkled  grass 

Llewelyn's  sorrow  proved. 

And  there  he  hung  his  horn  and  spear, 

And  there,  as  evening  fell. 
In  fancy's  ear  he  oft  wo\ild  hear 

Poor  Gelert's  dying  yell. 

And  till  great  Snowden's  rocks  grow  old. 

And  cease  tho  storm  to  brave. 
The  consecrated  spot  shall  hold 

The  name  of  "  Gelert's  grave  !" 

"  The  Emigrant's  Grave"  always  seemed  to  me  eminently  pa- 
thetic, and,  above  all,  eminently  true.  There  can  hardly  be  a 
country  neighborhood  in  England  in  which  the  recollection  of 
some  "  poor  exile  of  France,"  equally  patient,  equally  cheerful, 
equally  kind,  may  not  still  be  found,  softening  national  animosity, 
and  if  he  were  (as  often  chanced)  of  the  priesthood,  effacing  the 
still  deeper  prejudice  that  teaches  the  followers  of  Luther  to 
dread  the  members  of  the  Church  of  Rome. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  253 


THE  EMIGRANT'S   GRAVE. 

Why  mourn  ye  1    Why  strew  ye  those  flowerets  around 
On  yon  new-sodded  grave,  as  ye  slowly  advance  1 

In  yon  new-sodded  grave  (ever  dear  be  the  ground  !) 
Lies  the  stranger  we  loved,  the  i^oor  exile  of  France ! 

And  is  the  poor  exile  at  rest  from  his  woe, 
No  longer  the  sport  of  misfortune  and  chance  1 

Mourn  on,  village  mourners,  my  tears  too  shall  flow, 
For  the  stranger  we  loved,  the  poor  exile  of  France ! 

Oh  !  kind  was  his  nature,  though  bitter  his  fate. 
And  gay  was  his  converse,  though  broken  his  heart ; 

No  comfort,  no  hope,  his  own  breast  could  elate, 
Though  comfort  and  hope  he  to  all  could  impart. 

Ever  joyless  himself,  in  the  joys  of  the  plain. 

The  foremost  was  he  mirth  and  pleasure  to  raise ; 

How  sad  was  his  woe,  yet  how  blithe  was  his  strain, 
When  he  sang  the  glad  song  of  more  fortunate  days ! 

One  pleasure  he  knew  in  his  straw-cover'd  shed, 

The  way-wearied  traveler  recruited  to  see ; 
One  tear  of  delight  he  would  drop  o'er  the  bread 

Which  he  shared  with  the  poor, — the  still  poorer  than  he. 

And  when  round  his  death-bed  profusely  we  cast 
Every  gift,  every  solace  our  hamlet  could  bring, 

He  blest  us  with  sighs  which  we  thought  were  his  last, 
But  he  still  breathed  a  prayer  for  his  country  and  king. 

Poor  exile,  adieu  !  undisturbed  be  thy  sleep  ! 

From  the  feast,  from  the  wake,  from  the  village-green  dance, 
How  oft  shall  we  wander  at  moonlight  to  weep 

O'er  the  stranger  we  loved,  the  poor  exile  of  Franco  ! 

To  the  church-bidden  bride  shall  thy  memory  impart 
One  pang  as  her  eyes  on  thy  cold  relics  glance  ; 

One  flower  from  her  garland,  one  tear  from  her  heart, 
Shall  drop  on  the  grave  of  the  exile  of  France  ! 

This  is  a  country  picture  ;  in  my  own  childhood  I  knew  many 
of  the  numerous  colony  which  took  refuge  in  London  from  the 
horrors  of  the  First  French  Revolution.  The  lady  at  whose 
school  I  was  educated,  and  he  was  so  much  the  more  efficient 
partner  that  it  was  his  school  rather  than  hers,  had  married  a 


2'A  K  K  (.•  O  1 ,  L  E  C  r  1  U  N  S     O  F 

Froiicliiiiaii,  \vlio  had  been  secretary  to  the  Comte  dc  Moustiers, 
one  of  tlie  hist  embassadors,  if  not  the  very  last,  from  Louis  Seize 
to  the  Court  ol' St.  James's.  Of  course  he  knew  many  emigrants 
of  the  highest  rank,  and  indeed  of  all  ranks  ;  and  being  a  lively, 
kind-hearted  man,  with  a  liberal  hand,  and  a  social  temper,  it 
was  his  delight  to  assemble  as  many  as  he  could  of  his  poor  coun- 
trymen and  countrywomen  around  his  hospitable  supper-table. 
Something  wonderful  and  admirable  it  was  to  see  how  these 
Dukes  and  Duchesses,  Marshals  and  Marquises,  Chevaliers  and 
Bishops,  bore  up  under  their  unparalleled  reverses  !  How  they 
laughed,  and  talked,  and  squabbled,  and  flirted,  constant  to  their 
high  heels,  their  rouge,  and  their  furbelows,  to  their  old  liaisons, 
their  polished  sarcasms,  their  cherished  rivalries  !  They  clung 
even  to  their  mariages  de  convenance  ;  and  the  very  habits  Avhich 
would  most  have  offended  our  English  notions,  if  we  had  seen 
them  in  their  splendid  hotels  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Gennain,  won 
tolerance  and  pardon  when  mixed  up  with  such  unaffected  con- 
stancy, and  such  cheerful  resignation. 

For  the  most  part  these  noble  exiles  had  a  trifling  pecuniary 
dependency  ;  some  had  brought  with  them  jewels  enough  to  sus- 
tain them  in  their  simple  lodgings  in  Knightsbridge  or  Penton- 
ville  ;  to  some  a  faithful  steward  contrived  to  forward  the  produce 
of  some  estate  too  small  to  have  been  seized  by  the  early  plunder- 
ers ;  to  others  a  rich  English  friend  would  claim  the  privilege  of 
returning  the  kindness  and  hospitality  of  by-gone  years.  But  very 
many  lived  literally  on  the  produce  of  their  own  industry,  the 
gentlemen  teaching  languages,  music,  fencing,  dancing,  while 
their  wives  and  daughters  went  out  as  teachers  or  governesses,  or 
supplied  the  shops  with  those  objects  of  taste  in  millinery  or  arti- 
ficial flowers  for  which  their  country  is  unrivaled.  No  one  was 
ashamed  of  these  exertions  ;  no  one  was  proud  of  them.  So  per- 
fect and  so  honest  was  the  simplicity  with  which  they  entered 
upon  this  new  course  of  life,  that  they  did  not  even  seem  conscious 
of  its  merit.  The  hope  of  better  days  carried  them  gayly  along, 
and  the  present  evil  was  lost  in  the  sunshiny  future. 

Here  and  there,  however,  the  distress  was  too  real,  too  pressing 
to  be  forgotten  ;  in  such  cases  our  good  schoolmaster  used  to  con- 
trive all  possible  measures  to  assist  and  to  relieve.  One  venera- 
ble couple  I  remember  well.  They  bore  one  of  the  highest  names 
of  Brittany,  and  had  possessed  large  estates,  had  lost  their  two 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  255 

sons,  and  were  now  in  their  old  age,  their  sickness,  and  their  help- 
lessness, almost  entirely  dependent  upon  the  labor  of  Mdlle.  Rose, 
their  grand-daughter.  Rose — what  a  name  for  that  pallid,  droop- 
ing creature,  whose  dark  eyes  looked  too  large  for  her  face,  whose 
bones  seemed  starting  through  her  skin,  and  whose  black  hair 
contrasted  even  fearfully  with  the  wan  complexion  from  which 
every  tinge  of  healthful  color  had  long  flown  !  For  some  time 
these  interesting  persons  regularly  attended  our  worthy  governess's 
supper-parties,  the  objects  of  univei'sal  aflection  and  respect. 
Each  seemed  to  come  for  the  sake  of  the  other  ;  Mademoiselle, 
always  bringing  with  her  some  ingenious  straw-plaiting  to  make 
into  the  fancy  bonnets  which  were  then  in  vogue,  rarely  raised 
her  head  from  her  work,  or  allowed  herself  time  to  make  a  hasty 
meal.  It  was  sad  to  think  how  ceaseless  must  be  the  industry 
by  which  that  fair  and  fragile  creature  could  support  the  helpless 
couple  who  were  cast  upon  her  duty  and  her  affection  I  At  last 
they  ceased  to  appear  at  the  Wednesday  parties,  and  very  soon 
after  (Oh  I  it  is  the  poor  that  help  the  poor  !)  we  heard  that  the 
good  Abbe  Calonne  (brother  to  the  well-known  minister)  had  un- 
dertaken for  a  moderate  stipend  the  charge  of  the  venerable 
Count  and  Countess,  while  Mdlle.  Rose,  with  her  straw-plaiting, 
took  up  her  abode  in  our  school-room,  working  as  indefatigably 
through  our  verbs  and  over  our  exercises  as  she  had  before  done 
through  the  rattle  of  the  tric-trac  table  and  the  ceaseless  clatter 
of  French  talk. 

Now  this  school  of  ours  was  no  worse  than  other  schools  ;  in- 
deed it  was  reckoned  among  the  best  conducted,  but  some  way 
or  other  the  foul  weed  called  exclusiveness  had  sprung  up  among 
the  half-dozen  great  girls  who,  fifty  years  ago,  "  gave  our  little 
senate  laws,"  to  a  point  that  threatened  to  choke  and  destroy 
every  plant  of  a  more  wholesome  influence.  Doubtless,  long, 
long  ago  the  world  and  the  world's  trials,  prosperity  with  the 
weariness  and  the  bitterness  it  brings,  adversity  with  the  joys  it 
takes  away,  have  tamed  those  proud  hearts  I  But,  at  the  time 
of  which  I  speak,  no  committee  of  Countesses  deciding  upon  pe- 
titions for  vouchers  for  a  subscription  ball;  no  Chapter  of  noblo 
canonesses  examining  into  the  sixteen  quarters  required  for  their 
candidate  ;  could  by  possibility  inquire  more  seriously  into  the 
nice  questions  of  station,  position,  and  alliance  than  the  unfledged 
younglings  who  constituted  our   first  class.     They  were  merely 


256  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

pentlemcu's  ihuiffhters,  and  had  no  earthly  right  to  give  them- 
selves airs  ;  but  1  suspect  that  we  may  sometimes  see  in  elder 
gentlewomen  the  same  disproportion,  and  that  those  who  might, 
from  birth,  fortune,  and  position  assume  such  a  right,  will  be 
the  very  last  to  exert  their  privilege.  Luckily  for  me  I  was  a 
little  girl,  protected  by  my  youth  and  insignificance  from  the 
danger  of  a  contagion  which  it  requires  a  good  deal  of  moral 
courage  to  resist.  I  remember  wondering  how  Mdlle.  Rose,  with 
her  incessant  industry,  her  open  desire  to  sell  her  bonnets,  and 
her  shabby  cotton  gown,  would  escape  from  our  censors.  Hap- 
pily she  was  spared,  avowedly  because  her  birth  was  noble — 
perhaps  because,  with  all  their  vulgar  denunciations  of  vulgarity, 
their  rineries,  and  their  vanities,  the  young  girls  were  better  than 
they  knew,  and  respected  in  their  hearts  the  very  humility  which 
they  denounced. 

If,  however,  there  were  something  about  the  fair  Frenchwoman 
that  held  in  awe  the  spirit  of  girlish  impertinence,  chance  soon 
bestowed  upon  them,  in  the  shape  of  a  new  pupil,  an  object  which 
called  forth  all  their  worst  qualities,  without  stint  and  without 
impediment. 

The  poor  child  who  was  destined  to  become  their  victim,  was 
a  short  squat  figure,  somewhere  about  nine  or  ten  years  of  age ; 
awkward  in  her  carriage,  plain  in  her  features,  ill-dressed  and 
over-dressed.  She  happened  to  arrive  at  the  same  time  with 
the  French  dancing-master,  a  Marquis  of  the  a7icien  regime,  of 
whom  I  am  sorry  to  say,  that  he  seemed  so  at  home  in  his  Terp- 
sichorean  vocation,  that  one  could  hardly  fancy  him  fit  for  any 
other.  (Were  not  les  Marquis  of  the  old  French  comedy  very 
much  like  dancing-masters  ;  I  am  sure  Moliere  thought  so.)  At 
the  same  time  with  the  French  dancing-master  did  our  new  fel- 
low-pupil arrive,  led  into  the  room  by  her  father  ;  he  did  not 
stay  five  minutes,  but  that  time  was  long  enough  to  strike  Mon- 
sieur with  a  horror,  evinced  by  a  series  of  shrugs  which  soon  ren- 
dered the  dislike  reciprocal.  I  never  saw  such  a  contrast  between 
two  men.  The  Frenchman  was  slim,  and  long,  and  pale  ;  and 
allowing  always  for  the  dancing-master  air,  which  in  my  secret 
soul  I  thought  never  could  be  allowed  for,  he  might  be  called 
elegant.  The  Englishman  was  the  beau  ideal  of  a  John  Bull, 
portentous  in  size,  broad,  and  red  of  visage  ;  loud  of  tongue,  and 
heavy  in  step  ;  he  shook  the  room  as  he  strode,  and  made  the 


A    LITERAKY    LIFE.  257 

walls  echo  when  ho  spoke.  I  rather  liked  the  man,  there  was 
so  much  character  about  him,  and  in  spite  of  the  coarseness,  so 
much  that  was  bold  and  hearty.  Monsieur  shrugged  to  be  sure, 
but  he  seemed  likely  to  run  away,  especially  when  the  stranger's 
first  words  conveyed  an  injunction  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  "  to 
take  care  that  no  grinning  Frenchman  had  the  ordering  of  his 
Betsy's  feet.  If  she  must  learn  to  dance,  let  her  be  taught  by  an 
honest  Englishman."  After  which  declaration,  kissing  the  little 
girl  very  tenderly,  the  astounding  papa  took  his  departure. 

Poor  Betsy  I  there  she  sate,  the  tears  trickling  down  her  cheeks, 
little  comforted  by  the  kind  notice  of  the  governess  and  the  Eng- 
lish teacher,  and  apparently  insensible  to  the  silent  scorn  of  her 
new  companions.  For  my  own  part,  I  entertained  toward  her 
much  of  that  pity  which  results  from  recent  experience  of  the 
same  sort  of  distress, — 

"  A  fellow  feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind." 

I  was  a  little  girl  myself,  abundantly  shy  aad  awkward,  and  I 
had  not  forgotten  the  heart-tug  of  leaving  home,  and  the  terrible 
loneliness  of  the  first  day  at  school.  Moreover,  I  suspected  that 
in  one  respect  she  was  much  more  an  object  of  compassion  than 
myself;  I  believed  her  to  be  motherless  ;  so  when  I  thought  no- 
body was  looking  or  listening,  I  made  some  girlish  advances  to- 
ward acquaintanceship,  which  she  was  still  too  shy  or  too  miser- 
able to  return,  so  that,  easily  repelled  myself,  as  a  bashful  child 
is,  our  intercourse  came  to  nothing.  With  my  elders  and  betters, 
the  cancan,  who  ruled  the  school,  Betsy  stood  if  possible  lower 
than  ever.  They  had  had  the  satisfaction  to  discover  not  only 
that  he  lived  in  the  Borough,  but  that  her  father  (horror  of  hor- 
rors I)  was  an  eminent  cheesefactor  I — a  seller  of  Stilton  I  That 
he  was  very  rich,  and  had  a  brother  an  alderman,  rather  made 
matters  worse.  Poor  Betsy  only  escaped  being  sent  to  Coventry 
by  the  lucky  circumstance  of  her  going  that  metaphorical  journey 
of  her  own  accord,  and  never  under  any  temptation  speaking  to 
any  body  one  unnecessary  word. 

As  far  as  her  lessons  went  she  was,  fi'om  the  false  indulgence 
with  which  she  had  been  treated,  very  backward  for  her  age. 
Our  school  was,  however,  really  excellent  as  a  place  of  instruc- 
tion ;  so  no  studies  were  forced  upon  her,  and  she  was  left  to  get 


258  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

aoquainlod  with  the  liouso  anil  its  ways,  ami  to  fall  into  the  ranks 
as  she  could. 

For  the  present  she  seemed  to  have  attached  herself  to  Mdlle. 
Rose,  attracted  probably  by  the  sweetness  of  her  countenance,  her 
sadness,  and  her  silence.  Her  speech  could  not  have  attracted 
Betsy,  for  in  common  with  many  of  her  exiled  country-folk,  she 
had  not  in  nearly  ten  years'  residence  in  England  learned  to 
speak  five  English  words.  But  something  had  won  her  affection. 
She  had  on  first  being  called  by  the  governess,  from  the  dark  cor- 
ner in  which  she  had  ensconced  herself,  crept  to  the  side  of  the 
young  Frenchwoman,  had  watched  her  as  she  wove  her  straw 
plaits,  had  attempted  the  simple  art  with  some  discarded  straws 
that  lay  scattered  upon  the  floor  ;  and  when  Mademoiselle  so  far 
roused  herself  as  to  show  her  the  proper  way,  and  to  furnish  her 
with  the  material,  she  soon  became  a  most  efficient  assistant  in 
this  branch  of  industry. 

No  intercourse  took  place  between  them.  Indeed,  as  I  have 
said,  none  was  possible,  since  neither  knew  a  Avord  of  the  other's 
language.  Betsy  was  silence  personified  ;  and  poor  Mdlle.  Rose, 
always  pensive  and  reserved,  was  now  more  than  ever  dejected 
and  oppressed.  An  opportunity  of  returning  to  France  had  opened 
to  her,  and  was  passing  away.  She  herself  was  too  young  to  be 
included  in  the  list  of  emigrants,  and  interest  had  been  made 
with  the  French  Consul  for  the  re-admission  of  her  venerable 
parents,  and  perhaps  for  the  ultimate  recovery  of  some  property 
still  unsold.  But  her  grandfather  was  so  aged,  and  her  grand- 
mother so  sickly,  that  the  expenses  of  a  voyage  and  a  journey, 
then  very  formidable  to  the  old  and  the  infirm,  were  beyond  her 
means,  beyond  even  her  hopes.  So  she  sighed  over  her  straw- 
plaiting,  and  submitted. 

In  the  mean  time  the  second  Saturday  arrived,  and  with  it  a 
summons  home  to  Betsy,  who,  for  the  first  time  gathering  courage 
to  address  our  good  governess,  asked  "  if  she  might  be  trusted 
with  the  bonnet  Mdlle.  Rose  had  just  finished,  to  show  her  aunt — 
she  knew  she  would  like  to  buy  that  bonnet,  because  Made- 
moiselle had  been  so  good  as  to  let  her  assist  in  plaiting  it." 
How  she  came  to  know  that  they  were  for  sale  nobody  could  tell ; 
but  our  kind  governess  ordered  the  bonnet  to  be  put  into  the 
carriage,  told  her  the  price — (no  extravagant  one  I) — called  her 
a  good  child,  and  took  leave  of  her  till  Monday. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  259 

Two  hours  after  Betsy  and  her  father  re-appeared  in  the  school- 
room. "  Ma'amselle,"  said  he,  bawling  as  loud  as  he  could, 
with  the  view,  as  we  afterward  conjectured,  of  making  her  un- 
derstand him.  "  Ma'amselle,  I've  no  great  love  for  the  French, 
whom  I  take  to  he  our  natural  enemies.  But  you're  a  good 
young  woman  ;  you've  been  kind  to  my  Betsy,  and  have  taught 
her  how  to  make  your  fallals;  and  moreover  you're  a  good 
daughter  :  and  so's  my  Betsy.  She  says  that  she  thinks  you're 
fretting,  because  you  can't  manage  to  take  your  grandfather  and 
grandmother  back  to  France  again  ; — so  as  you  let  her  help  you 
in  that  other  handy- work,  why  you  must  let  her  help  you  in  this." 
Then  throwing  a  heavy  puree  into  her  lap,  catching  his  little 
daughter  up  in  his  arms,  and  hugging  her  to  the  honest  breast 
where  she  hid  her  tears  and  her  blushes,  he  departed,  leaving 
poor  Mdlle.  Rose  too  much  bewildered  to  speak  or  to  comprehend 
the  happiness  that  had  fallen  upon  her,  and  the  whole  school  the 
better  for  the  lesson. 


260  K  ECO  L  LECTIONS    OF 


XXL 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  DRAMATIC  AUTHORS. 

COLLEY    CIBBER. RICHARD    CUMBERLAND. 

Of  all  literary  fascinations  there  is  none  like  that  of  the  Drama, 
written  or  acted.    None  that  begins  so  early,  or  that  lasts  so  long. 

With  regard  to  actors,  it  is  a  sort  of  possessioii  by  evil  spirits. 
Boys  and  girls  from  the  school-room  and  the  counting-house,  the 
shop-board,  or  the  college,  rush  upon  the  stage,  forsaking  home 
and  comfort,  and  the  thousand  realities  of  life,  in  chase  of  the 
phantom.  Fame.  And  in  authorship,  the  passion,  although  not 
perhaps  so  common,  is  hardly  less  engrossing,  or  less  destructive 
The  "  Honeymoon,"  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  modern  come- 
dies, wsLS  the  seventh  play  presented  by  poor  Tobin  to  different 
managers.  He  died,  I  believe,  the  very  same  night  that  it  was 
performed  with  unrivaled  success,  certainly  before  the  intelligence 
of  its  triumph  could  reach  him.  Gerald  Griffin  was  even  less 
fortunate.  "  Gisippus"  was  rejected  on  all  hands,  and  only  pro- 
duced after  his  death,  and  after  the  destruction  of  his  other 
tragedies,  to  secure  for  its  author  a  posthumous  reputation.  Many, 
no  doubt,  more  unfortunate  still,  have  died  and  left  no  name  ;  and 
many  may  still  exist,  dragging  after  them  a  weary  weight  of  hope 
deferred,  and  genius  unrecognized. 

I  have  some  right  to  talk  of  the  love  of  the  drama,  the  pas- 
sionate, absorbing,  worshiping  love,  since  it  took  possession  of 
me  at  the  earliest  age,  and  clung  to  me  long.  Nay,  I  am  not 
even  now  absolutely  sure,  that  if  the  Cruvellis  and  the  Yiordots 
would  but  say,  instead  of  sing  ;  if  we  might  but  see  in  tragedy  the 
dramatic  power  lavished  upon  opera,  I  might  not  be  simple  enough 
once  more  to  take  up  my  old  enthusiasm,  and  haunt  the  theaters  at 
sixty-five  I  Luckily,  the  age  is  a  musical  age,  and  there  is  small 
danger  that  any  Glueen  of  Song  should  exchange  her  notes  fer 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  261 

words, — especially  in  a  country  where  the  notes  of  a  prima  donna 
are  synonymous  with  bank-notes. 

The  first  play  I  remember  to  have  seen  was  in  a  barn — 
tragedy  of  course — the  tragedy  dear  to  heroes  of  the  buskin,  and 
no  less  dear  to  their  youthful  auditors,  "  Richard  the  Third." 
Ah  I  I  should  have  asked  nothing  better  than  to  see  Richard 
murdered  in  that  barn  every  night !  Then  came  other  play-goings 
more  legitimate  ;  and  readings  of  Shakspeare  by  bits,  and  here 
and  there,  I  scarcely  know  how  or  when.  For  it  may  be  reckon- 
ed among  the  best  and  dearest  of  our  English  privileges,  that  we 
are  all  more  or  less  educated  in  Shakspeare  ;  that  the  words  and 
thoughts  of  the  greatest  of  poets  are,  as  it  were,  engrafted  into 
our  minds,  and  must,  to  a  certain  extent,  enrich  and  fructify  the 
most  barren  stock.  Shakspeare  came  to  me  I  can  not  tell  how. 
But  my  first  great  fit  of  dramatic  reading  was,  I  am  ashamed  to 
say,  of  very  questionable  origin ;  a  stolen  pleasure  ;  and  there- 
fore— alas  I  for  our  poor  sinful  human  nature  ! — therefore  by  very 
far  more  dear. 

This  is  the  story. 

My  childhood  was,  as  I  have  elsewhere  said,  a  very  happy 
one  ;  scarcely  less  happy  in  the  great  London  school  where  I  passed 
the  five  years  between  ten  years  old  and  fifteen,  than  at  home  ; 
to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  well  nigh  as  much  spoilt  in  one  place  as 
in  the  other  ;  but  as  I  was  a  quiet  and  orderly  little  girl,  and  fell 
easily  into  the  rules  of  the  house,  there  was  no  great  harm  done, 
either  to  me  or  to  the  school  discipline. 

One  exception,  however,  did  exist,  both  to  my  felicity  and  to 
my  obedience,  and  that  one  might  be  comprised  in  the  single 
word — Music. 

How  my  father,  who  certainly  never  knew  the  tune  of  "  God 
save  the  King"  from  that  of  the  other  national  air  "  Rule  Bri- 
tannia," came  to  take  into  his  head  so  strong  a  i'ancy  to  make  me 
an  accomplished  musician,  I  could  never  rightly  understand,  but 
that  such  a  fancy  did  possess  him  I  found  to  my  sorrow  !  From 
the  day  I  was  five  years  old,  he  stuck  me  up  to  the  piano,  and 
although  teacher  after  teacher  had  discovered  that  I  had  neither 
ear,  nor  taste,  nor  application,  he  continued  fully  bent  upon  my 
learning  it.  By  the  time  my  London  education  commenced,  it 
had  assumed  the  form  of  a  fixed  idea. 

The   regular  master  employed    in    the   .school   was  Mr.    Hook 


262  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

(father  of  Theodore),  then  a  popular  composcv  of  Vauxhall  songs, 
and  an  instructor  of  average  ability.  A  large  smooth-taced  man 
he  was,  good-natured,  and  civil  spoken  ;  but  failing,  as  in  my 
case  every  body  else  had  failed,  to  produce  the  slightest  improve- 
ment, my  father,  not  much  struck  by  his  appearance  or  manner, 
decided,  as  usual,  that  the  fault  lay  with  the  teacher  ;  and  hap- 
pening one  day  to  fall  in  with  a  very  clever  little  German  profes- 
sor, who  was  giving  lessons  to  two  of  my  school-fellows,  he  at  once 
took  me  from  the  tuition  of  Mr.  Hook,  and  placed  me  under  that 
of  Herr  Schuberl,  who,  an  impatient,  irritable  man  of  genius,  very 
speedily  avenged  the  cause  of  his  rival  music-master,  by  dismissing 
in  her  turn  the  unlucky  pupil. 

Things  being  in  this  unpromising  state,  I  began  to  entertain 
some  hope  that  my  musical  education  would  be  given  up  alto- 
gether. In  this  expectation  I  did  injustice  to  my  father's  pertina- 
city. This  time  he  threw  the  blame  upon  the  instrument ;  and 
because  I  could  make  nothing  after  eight  years'  thumping  upon 
the  piano-forte,  resolved  that  I  should  become  a  great  performer 
upon  the  harp. 

It  so  happened  that  our  school-house  (the  same,  by  the  way,  in 
which  poor  Miss  Landon  passed  the  greater  part  of  her  life), 
forming  one  angle  of  an  irregular  octagon  place,  was  so  built 
that  the  principal  reception-room  was  connected  with  the  en- 
trance-hall by  a  long  passage  and  two  double  doors.  This  room, 
fitted  up  with  nicely  bound  books,  contained,  among  other  musi- 
cal instruments,  the  harp,  upon  which  I  was  sent  to  practice 
every  morning ;  sent  alone,  most  comfortably  out  of  sight  and 
hearing  of  every  individual  in  the  house,  the  only  means  of  ap- 
proach being  through  two  resounding  green  baize  doors,  swinging 
to  with  a  heavy  bang,  the  moment  they  were  let  go  ;  so  that  as 
the  change  from  piano  to  harp,  and  from  the  impulsive  Herr 
Schuberl  to  the  prim,  demure  little  Miss  Essex,  my  new  music- 
mistress,  had  by  no  means  worked  the  miracle  of  producing  in 
me  any  love  of  that  detestable  art,  I  very  shortly  betook  myself 
to  the  book-shelves,  and  seeing  a  row  of  octavo  volumes  lettered 
"Theatre  de  Voltaire,"  I  selected  one  of  them,  and  had  deposited 
it  in  front  of  the  music-stand,  and  perched  myself  upon  the  stool 
to  read  it  in  less  time  than  an  ordinary  pupil  would  have  con- 
sumed in  getting  through  the  first  three  bars  of "  Ar  Hyd  y 
Nos." 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  263 

The  play  upon  -wliicli  I  opened  was  "  Zaire."  "  Zaire"  is  not 
"Richard  the  Third,"  any  more  than  M.  de  Voltaire  is  Shak- 
speare  ;  nevertheless,  the  play  has  its  merits.  There  is  a  certain 
romance  in  the  situation  ;  an  interest  in  the  story  ;  a  mixture  of 
Christian  piety  and  Oriental  fervor,  which  strikes  the  imagination; 
So  I  got  through  "  Zaire  ;"  and  when  I  had  finished  "  Zaire,"  I 
proceeded  to  other  plays — "  ^Edipe,"  "  Merope,"  "  Alzire,"  "  Ma- 
homet," plays  well  worth  reading,  but  not  so  absorbing  as  to 
prevent  my  giving  due  attention  to  the  warning  doors,  and  put- 
ting the  book  in  its  place,  and  striking  the  chords  of  "  Ar  Hyd  y 
Nos,"  as  often  as  I  heard  a  step  approaching  ;  or  gathering  up 
myself  and  my  music,  and  walking  quietly  back  to  the  school- 
room as  soon  as  the  hour  for  practice  had  expired. 

But  when  the  dramas  of  Voltaire  were  exhausted,  and  I  had 
recourse  to  some  neighboring  volumes,  the  state  of  matters  changed 
at  once.  The  new  volumes  contained  the  comedies  of  Moliere, 
and,  once  plunged  into  the  gay  realities  of  his  delightful  world, 
all  the  miseries  of  this  globe  of  ours — harp,  music-books,  practi- 
cings,  and  lessons — were  forgotten  ;  Miss  Essex  melted  into  thin 
air,  "  Ar  Hyd  y  Nos"  became  a  nonentity.  I  never  recollected 
that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  time  ;  I  never  heard  the  warning 
doors  ;  the  only  tribulations  that  troubled  me  were  the  tribula- 
tions of  "  Sganarelle  ;"  the  only  lessons  I  thought  about  the  les- 
sons of  the  "  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme."  So  I  was  caught;  caught 
in  the  very  fact  of  laughing  till  I  cried,  over  the  apostrophes  of 
the  angry  father  to  the  galley  in  which  he  is  told  his  son  has 
been  taken  captive.  "  Glue  diable  alloit-il  faire  dans  cette  ga- 
lere  I"  The  apostrophe  comes  true  with  regard  to  somebody  in  a 
scrape  during  every  moment  of  every  day,  and  was  never  more 
applicable  than  to  myself  at  that  instant. 

Luckily,  however,  the  person  who  discovered  my  delinquency 
was  one  of  my  chief  spoilers,  the  husband  of  our  good  schoolmis- 
tress, himself  a  Frenchman,  an  adorer  of  the  great  dramatist  of 
France,  and  no  worshiper  of  music.  He  was  also  a  very  clever 
mail,  with  a  strong  and  just  conviction  that  no  proficiency  in  any 
art  could  be  gained  without  natural  qualifications  and  sincere 
good-will.  Accordingly,  when  he  could  speak  for  laughing,  what 
he  said  sounded  far  more  like  a  compliment  upon  my  relish  for 
the  comic  drama,  than  a  rebuke.  I  suppose  that  he  spoke  to  the 
same  effect  to  rny  father.      At  ;ill   evenls,  the  issue  of  the  aflair 


264:  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

was  the  dismissal  of  the  poor  little  harp-mistress,  and  a  present 
of  a  cheap  edition  of  Moliore  for  my  own  reading.  I  have  got 
the  set  still — twelve  little  foreign-looking  books,  unbound,  but 
covered  with  a  gay-looking  pink  paper,  mottled  with  red,  like 
certain  carnations. 

Such  was  my  first  regular,  or  rather  irregular,  introduction  to 
the  delightful  world  of  the  written  drama.  Since  then  I  have 
read  in  the  originals,  or  in  such  translations  as  I  could  lay  my 
hands  upon,  the  plays  of  almost  every  country,  from  the  grand 
tragedy  of  the  Greeks  (perhaps,  next  to  Shakspeare  and  Moliere, 
the  finest  drama  that  exists),  down  to  Claudie,  the  charming 
French  pastoral,  which  fell  in  my  way  last  month. 

Besides  the  plays  themselves,  the  history  of  their  writers  has 
always  had  for  me  a  singular  attraction,  especially  when  such 
histories  have  been  written  by  themselves. 

Colley  Gibber,  one  of  the  earliest  of  these  dramatic  autobiogra- 
phers,  is  also  one  of  the  most  amusing.  He  flourished  in  wig 
and  embroidery,  player,  poet,  and  manager,  during  the  Augustan 
age  of  Glueen  Anne,  somewhat  earlier  and  somewhat  later.  A 
most  egregious  fop,  according  to  all  accounts,  he  was,  but  a  very 
plea«ant  one  notwithstanding,  as  your  fop  of  parts  is  apt  to  be. 
Pope  gained  but  little  in  the  warfare  he  Avaged  with  him,  for 
this  plain  reason,  that  the  great  poet  accuses  his  adversary  of 
dullness,  which  was  not  by  any  means  one  of  his  sins,  instead  of 
selecting  one  of  the  numerous  faults,  such  as  pertness,  petulance, 
and  presumption,  of  which  he  was  really  guilty. 

His  best  book,  the  Apology  for  his  Life,  shows  that  he  was  a 
keen  observer  and  a  pleasant  describer  of  his  brother  actors.  My 
first  extract  is  taken  from  a  higher  stage,  and  is  one  of  the  many 
graphic  touches  that  give  us  so  complete  and  personal  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  Merry  Monarch,  and  make  us  almost  partakers  of  the 
kindness  which  (unjustly,  I  suppose)  was  felt  toward  him  by  his 
subjects. 

"  In  Februarj',  1684-5,  died  King  Charles  II.,  who  being  the 
only  king  I  had  ever  seen,  I  remember,  young  as  I  was,  his  death 
made  a  strong  impression  upon  me,  as  it  drew  tears  from  the  eyes 
of  multitudes  who  looked  no  farther  into  him  than  I  did.  But 
what,  perhaps,  gave  King  Charles  this  peculiar  possession  of  so 
many  hearts  was  his  affable  and  easy  manner  in  conversing, 
which  is  a  quality  that  goes  farther  with  the  greater  part  of  man- 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  265 

kind  than  many  higher  virtues  which  in  a  prince  might  more 
immediately  regard  the  pubUc  prosperity.  Even  his  indolent 
amusement  of  playing  with  his  dogs,  and  feeding  his  ducks  in  St. 
James's  Park  (which  I  have  seen  him  do),  made  the  common 
people  adore  him.'' 

The  allusion  in  the  next  passage  is  probably  to  Titus  Gates  : 

"  The  inferior  actors  took  occasion,  whenever  they  appeared  as 
bravoes  or  murderers,  to  make  themselves  appear  as  frightful  and 
inhuman  figures  as  possible.  In  King  Charles's  time,  this  low 
skill  was  carried  to  such  an  extravagance,  that  the  King  himself, 
who  was  black-browed  and  of  a  swarthy  complexion,  passed  a 
pleasant  remark  upon  his  observing  the  grim  looks  of  the  murder- 
ers in  '  Macbeth,'  when  turning  to  his  people  in  the  box  about 
him,  '  Pray  what  is  the  meaning,'  said  he,  '  that  we  never  see  a 
rogue  in  a  play,  but  odds  fish  I  they  always  clap  him  on  a  black 
periwig,  when  it  is  well  known  one  of  the  greatest  rogues  in 
England  always  wears  a  fair  one  V  " 

Here  are  some  vivid  portraits  of  actors. 

"  This  actor  (Sandford)  in  his  manner  of  speaking  varied  very 
much  from  those  I  have  already  mentioned.  His  voice  had  an 
acute  and  piercing  tone,  which  struck  every  syllable  of  his  words 
distinctly  upon  the  ear.  He  had  likewise  a  peculiar  skill  in  his 
way  of  marking  out  to  an  audience  whatever  he  judged  worth 
their  more  than  ordinary  notice.  When  he  delivered  a  com- 
mand, he  would  sometimes  give  it  more  force  by  seeming  to 
slight  the  ornament  of  harmony.  *  *  "^^  Had  landlord  lived 
in  Shakspeare's  time,  I  am  confident  his  judgment  would  have 
chosen  him  above  all  other  actors  to  have  played  his  Richard  HI. 
I  leave  his  person  out  of  the  question,  which  though  naturally 
made  for  it,  yet  that  would  have  been  the  least  part  of  his  rec- 
ommendation. Sandford  had  stronger  claims  to  it.  He  had 
sometimes  an  uncouth  stateliness  in  his  motion,  a  harsh  and  sul- 
len pride  of  speech,  a  meditating  brow,  a  stern  aspect,  occasion- 
ally changing  into  an  almost  ludicrous  triumph  over  all  goodness 
and  virtue  ;  from  thence  falling  into  the  most  persuasive  gentle- 
ness and  soothing  candor  of  a  designing  heart.  These,  I  say, 
rruist  have  preferred  him  to  it.' 

*  *  * 

"  Nokes  was  an  actor  of  a  quite  difl'erent  genius  from  any  I 
have  ever  read,  heard  of,  or  seen,  since  or  before  his  time  ;   and 

M 


266  KKCOI-LKCTIONS    OF 

yet  his  penoral  cxcolloiice  may  bo  comprehended  in  one  article, 
vi/.,  a  plain  and  palpable  simplicity  of  nature,  which  was  so  ut- 
terly his  own,  that  he  was  often  as  unaccountably  diverting  in  his 
common  speech  as  on  the  stape.  I  saw  him  once  giving  an  ac- 
count of  some  table-talk  to  another  actor  behind  the  scenes,  which 
a  man  of  quality  accidentally  listening  to,  was  so  deceived  by  his 
manner,  that  he  asked  him  if  that  was  a  new  play  he  was  re- 
hearsing. *  *  *  He  scarce  ever  made  his  first  entrance  in  a 
play  but  he  was  received  with  an  involuntary  applause,  not  of 
hands  only,  but  by  a  general  laughter,  which  the  sight  of  him 
])rovoked  and  nature  could  not  resist ;  yet  the  louder  the  laugh, 
the  graver  was  his  look  upon  it  ;  and  even  the  ridiculous  solem- 
nity of  his  features  was  enough  to  have  set  a  whole  bench  of 
bishops  into  a  titter,  could  he  have  been  honored  with  such, 
grave  and  right  reverend  auditors.  In  the  ludicrous  distresses 
which  by  the  laws  of  comedy  folly  is  often  involved  in,  he  sunk 
into  such  a  mixture  of  piteous  pusillanimity  and  a  consternation 
so  ruefully  ridiculous  and  inconsolable,  that  when  he  had  shook 
you  to  a  fatigue  of  laughter  it  became  a  moot  point  whether  you 
ought  not  to  have  pitied  him.  When  he  debated  any  matter  by 
himself,  he  would  shut  up  his  mouth  with  a  dumb,  studious  pout, 
and  roll  his  full  ej'e  into  such  a  vacant  amazement,  such  a  pal- 
pable ignorance  of  what  to  think  of  it,  that  his  silent  perplexitj 
gave  your  imagination  as  full  content  as  the  most  absurd  thing 
he  could  say  upon  it.  *  *  *  jjis  person  was  of  the  middle 
size  ;  his  voice  clear  and  audible  ;  his  natural  countenance  grave 
and  sober.  In  some  of  his  low  characters  that  became  it  he  had 
a  shuffling  shamble  in  his  gait,  with  so  contented  an  ignorance  in 
his  aspect,  and  such  an  awkward  absurdity  in  his  gesture,  that 
had  you  not  known  him,  you  could  not  believe  that  naturally  he 
had  a  grain  of  common  sense." 

Nature  sometimes  reproduces  itself.  There  is  much  in  this 
description  to  remind  us  of  the  late  Mr.  Liston.  The  following 
observations  upon  the  great  tragedian  Betterton's  personation  of 
Hamlet  are  in  the  best  style  of  dramatic  criticism  : 

"  You  may  have  seen  a  Harnlet,  perhaps,  who  on  the  first*  ap- 
pearance of  his  father's  spirit  has  thrown  himself  into  all  the 
straining  vociferation  requisite  to  express  rage  and  fury  ;  and  the 
house  has  thundered  applause,  though  the  misguided  actor  was 
all  the  while  tearing  a  passion  into  ragg.     The  late  Mr.  Addison, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  267 

while  I  sate  by  him  to  see  this  scene  acted,  made  the  same  obser- 
vation, asking  me  with  some  surprise  if  I  thought  Hamlet  should 
be  in  so  violent  a  passion  with  the  ghost,  which,  though  it  might 
have  astonished,  had  not  provoked  him.  For  you  may  observe 
that  in  this  beautiful  speech  the  passion  never  rises  beyond  an 
almost  breathless  astonishment,  or  an  impatience  limited  only  by 
filial  reverence  to  inquire  into  the  suspected  wrongs  that  may  have 
raised  him  from  his  peaceful  tomb,  and  a  desire  to  know  what  a 
spirit  so  seemingly  distressed  might  wish  or  enjoin  a  sorrowful 
son  to  execute  toward  his  future  quiet  in  the  grave.  This  was 
the  light  into  which  Betterton  threw  this  scene,  which  he  opened 
with  a  pause  of  mute  amazement ;  then  rising  slowly  to  a  solemn, 
trembling  voice,  he  made  the  ghost  equally  terrible  to  the  spec- 
tator as  to  himself;  and  in  the  descriptive  part  of  the  natural 
emotions  which  the  ghostly  vision  gave  him,  the  boldness  of  his 
expostulation  was  still  governed  by  decency — manly,  but  not 
braving — his  voice  never  rising  into  that  seeming  outrage  or  wild 
defiance  of  what  he  naturally  revered." 

The  book  is  full  of  pictures  like  this  : 

"  In  the  solemn  formahty  of  Obadiah  in  '  The  Committee,'  he 
(Underbill)  seemed  the  immovable  log  he  stood  for  ;  a  counte- 
nance of  wood  could  not  be  more  fixed  than  his  when  the  block- 
head of  a  character  required  it.  His  face  was  full  and  long  ; 
from  his  crown  to  the  end  of  his  nose,  was  the  shorter  half  of  it ; 
so  that  the  disproportion  of  his  lower  features,  when  soberly  com- 
posed with  an  unwandering  eye  hanging  over  them,  threw  him 
into  the  most  lumpish,  moping  mortal  that  ever  made  beholders 
merry." 

Little  bits  of  truth  like  this  are  also  plentiful  : 

"  From  whence  I  would  observe,  that  the  short  life  of  beauty 
is  not  long  enough  to  form  a  complete  actress." 

Colley  Gibber  survived  to  his  eighty-seventh  year,  retaining  to 
the  last  the  companionable  qualities  which  had  made  his  society 
coveted  by  persons  of  all  ranks,  and  dying  at  last  without  decay 
and  without  pain. 

Richard  Cumberland  is  another  vivacious  specimen  of  dramat- 
ic authorship — more  vivacious  in  his  "  Life"  (I  mean  his  printed 
life)  than  on  the  stage.  Son  of  a  popular  and  amiable  bishop, 
grandson  of  the  very  learned  but  unpopular  and  unaniiable  schol- 
ar, Dr.  Bentley,  he  competed  successfully  at  Cambridge  for  the 


208  KECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

honors  of  llu'  rnivcrsily.  took  a  lii^^h  dopree,  obtained  a  Fcllow- 
ship  of  Trinity,  and  might,  probably,  have  attained  to  liis  grand- 
father's station  as  head  of  that  eminent  College,  had  he  not  been 
ttMupted  by  Lord  Halifax  to  accept  the  post  of  his  private  secre- 
tary, a  career  for  which  the  eminently  irritable  and  susceptible 
teinj)or  whifli  Slieridan  has  devoted  to  a  cruel  immortality  in  his 
Sir  Fretful  Plagiary  rendered  him  eminently  unfit. 

It  was,  however,  a  very  good  position  for  seeing  the  world,  and 
becoming  acquainted  with  men  of  high  name  and  various  char- 
acter. 

This  is  his  first  impression  of  Garrick  as  an  actor.  The  play 
was  "  Tlie  Fair  Penitent." 

•'  Q,uin  presented  himself,  upon  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  in  a 
green  velvet  coat,  embroidered  down  the  seams,  an  enormous  full- 
bottomed  periwig,  rolled  stockings,  and  high-heeled,  square-toed 
shoes ;  with  very  little  variation  of  cadence,  and  in  a  deep,  full 
tone,  accompanied  by  a  sawing  kind  of  action,  which  had  more 
of  the  senate  than  the  stage  in  it,  he  rolled  out  his  heroics  with 
an  air  of  dignified  indifference  that  seemed  to  disdain  the  plaudits 
that  were  showered  upon  him — Mrs.  Gibber,  in  a  key  high  pitched, 
but  sweet  withal,  sang,  or  rather  recitatived,  Howe's  harmonious 
strain.  But  when,  after  long  and  eager  expectation,  I  first  be- 
held little  Garrick,  then  young  and  light,  and  alive  in  every 
muscle  and  in  every  feature,  come  bounding  on  the  stage,  and 
pointing  at  the  wittol  Altamont  and  the  heavy-paced  Horatio 
(Heavens,  what  a  transition  I)  it  seemed  as  if  a  whole  century 
had  been  swept  over  in  the  space  of  a  single  scene ;  old  things 
were  done  away,  and  a  new  order  at  once  brought  forward, 
bright  and  luminous,  and  clearly  destined  to  dispel  the  barba- 
risms and  bigotry  of  a  tasteless  age,  too  long  attached  to  the  prej- 
udices of  custom,  and  superstitiously  devoted  to  the  illusions  of 
imposing  declamation." 

His  first  introduction  to  official  life  was  httle  to  his  taste. 

"  The  morning  after  my  arrival,  I  waited  on  Mr.  Pownall  at 
his  ofllce  in  "Whitehall,  and  was  received  by  him  with  all  possi- 
ble politeness,  but  in  a  style  of  such  ceremony  and  form  as  I  was 
little  used  to,  and  not  much  delighted  with.  How  many  young 
men  at  my  time  of  life  would  have  embraced  this  situation  with 
rapture.  The  whole  town  indeed  was  before  me,  but  it  had  not 
for  me  either  friend  or  relation  to  whom  I  could  resort  for  com- 


A    LITERARY    LIFE,  269 

fort  or  for  counsel.  With  a  head  filled  with  Greek  and  Latin, 
and  a  heart  left  behind  me  in  my  college,  I  was  completely  out 
of  my  element.  I  saw  myself  unlike  the  people  about  me,  and 
was  embarrassed  in  circles,  which,  according  to  the  manners  of 
those  days,  were  not  to  be  approached  without  a  set  of  ceremo- 
nies and  manoeuvers  not  very  pleasant  to  perform,  and  when 
awkwardly  performed  not  very  edifying  to  behold.  In  these 
graces  Lord  Halifax  was  a  model  ;  his  address  was  noble  and 
imposing  ;  he  could  never  be  mistaken  for  less  than  he  was, 
while  his  official  secretary,  Pownall,  who  egregiously  overacted 
his  imitations  of  him,  could  as  little  be  mistaken  for  more  than 
he  was." 

One  of  his  happiest  characters  is  that  of  Bubb  Dodington. 

"  His  town  house  in  Pall  Mall,  his  villa  at  Hammersmith,  and 
his  mansion  in  the  country,  were  such  establishments  as  few  no- 
bles in  the  nation  were  possessed  of  In  either  of  these  he  was  not 
to  be  approached  but  through  a  suite  of  apartments,  and  rarely 
seated  but  under  painted  ceilings  and  gilt  entablatures.  In  his 
villa  you  were  conducted  through  two  rows  of  antique  statues, 
ranged  in  a  gallery  floored  with  the  rarest  marbles,  and  enriched 
with  columns  of  granite  and  lapis-lazuli ;  his  saloon  was  hung 
with  the  finest  Gobelin  tapestry,  and  he  slept  in  a  bed  encanopied 
with  peacocks'  feathers,  in  the  style  of  Mrs.  Montagu.  When  he 
passed  from  Pall  Mall  to  La  Trappe,  it  was  always  in  a  coach, 
which  I  could  suspect  had  been  his  embassadorial  equipage  at 
Madrid,  drawn  by  six  fat,  unwieldy  black  horses,  short  docked, 
and  of  colossal  dignity.  Neither  was  he  less  characteristic  in  ap- 
parel than  in  equipage.  He  had  a  wardrobe  loaded  with  rich  and 
glaring  suits,  each  in  itself  a  load  to  the  wearer ;  and  of  these  I 
have  no  doubt  but  many  were  coeval  with  his  embassy  above 
mentioned,  and  every  birth-day  had  added  to  the  stock.  In  doing 
this  he  so  contrived  as  never  to  put  his  old  dresses  out  of  counte- 
nance by  any  variation  in  the  fashion  of  the  new.  In  the  mean 
time  his  bulk  and  corpulence  gave  full  display  to  a  vast  expanse 
and  profusion  of  brocade  and  embroidery  ;  and  this,  when  set  off 
with  an  enormous  tie  periwig  and  deep  laced  ruffles,  gave  the 
j)icture  of  an  ancient  courtier  in  his  gala  habit,  or  Q,uin  in  his 
stage  dress.  Nevertheless,  it  must  be  confessed  this  style,  though 
out  of  date,  was  not  out  of  character,  but  harmonized  so  well  with 
the  person  of  the  wearer,  that  I  remember  when  he  made  his  first 


270  RECOLLKCTIONS    OF 

Bpcecli  in  the  Hoii8e  ol"  Peers  as  Lord  Melcombe,  all  the  flashes 
of  his  wit,  all  the  studied  phrases  and  well-timed  periods  of  his 
rhetoric  lost  their  clliict,  simply  because  the  orator  had  laid  aside 
his  magisterial  tie,  and  put  on  a  modern  bag  wig,  which  was  as 
mueh  out  of  costume  upon  the  broad  expanse  of  his  shoulders  as 
a  cue  would  have  been  upon  the  robes  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice. 

'•  Having  thus  dilated  more,  perhaps,  than  I  should  have  done 
upon  this  distinguished  person's  passion  for  magnificence  and  dis- 
play, when  I  proceed  to  inquire  into  those  principles  of  good  taste 
which  should  naturally  have  been  the  accompaniments  and  di- 
rectors of  that  magnificence,  I  fear  I  must  be  compelled  by  truth 
to  admit  that  in  these  he  was  deficient.  Of  pictures  he  seemed 
to  take  his  estimate  only  by  their  cost  :  in  fact,  he  was  not  pos- 
sessed of  any  ;  but  I  recollect  his  saying  to  me  one  day  in  his 
great  saloon  at  Eastbury,  that  if  he  had  half  a  score  pictures  of 
a  thousand  pounds  a-piece,  he  would  gladly  decorate  his  walls 
with  them  ;  in  place  of  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  he  had  stuck 
up  immense  patches  of  gilt  leather,  shaped  into  bugle-horns,  upon 
hangings  of  rich  crimson  velvet ;  and  round  his  state  bed  he  dis- 
played a  carpeting  of  gold  and  silver  embroidery  which  too  glar- 
ingly betrayed  its  derivation  from  coat,  waistcoat,  and  breeches, 
by  the  testimony  of  pockets,  button-holes  and  loops,  with  other 
equally  incontrovertible  witnesses  subpoenaed  from  the  tailor's 
shopboard." 

Lord  Halifax  is  sent  as  Lord-Lieutenant  to  Ireland,  to  which 
we  owe  the  following  portrait  of  a  great  celebrity  of  Dublin. 

"  I  had  more  than  once  the  amusement  of  dining  at  the  house 
of  that  most  singular  being  George  Faulkner,  where  I  found  my- 
self in  a  company  so  miscellaneously  and  whimsically  classed, 
that  it  looked  more  like  a  fortuitous  concourse  of  oddities  jumbled 
together  from  all  ranks,  orders  and  descriptions,  than  the  effect 
of  invitation  and  design.  Description  must  fall  short  in  the  at- 
tempt to  convey  any  sketch  of  that  eccentric  being  to  those  who 
have  not  read  him  in  the  pages  of  Jephson,  or  seen  him  in  the 
mimicry  of  Foote,  who,  in  his  portraits  of  Faulkner,  found  the 
only  sitter  whom  his  extravagant  pencil  could  not  caricature  ; 
for  he  had  a  solemn  intrepidity  of  egotism  and  a  daring  contempt 
of  absurdity  that  fairly  outfaced  imitation,  and  like  Garrick's 
'  Ode  on  Shakspeare,'  which  Johnson  said  defied  criticism,  so  did 
George,  in  the  original  spirit  of  his  own  perfect  buffoonery,  defy 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  271 

caricature.  He  never  deigned  to  join  in  the  laugh  that  he  had 
raised,  nor  seemed  to  have  a  feeUng  of  the  ridicule  he  had  pro- 
voked. At  the  same  time  that  he  was  pre-eminently  and  by- 
preference  the  butt  and  buffoon  of  the  company,  he  could  find 
openings  for  hits  of  retaliation  which  were  such  left-handed 
thrusts  as  few  could  parry.  Nobody  could  foresee  where  they 
would  fall,  nobody,  of  course,  was  fore-armed ;  and  as  there  was 
in  his  calculation  but  one  super-eminent  character  in  the  king- 
dom of  Ireland,  and  he,  the  printer  of  the  '  Dublin  Journal,'  there 
was  no  shield  against  George's  arrows,  which  flew  where  he 
listed,  and  hit  or  missed  as  chance  directed,  he  cared  not  about 
consequences. 

"  He  gave  good  meat  and  excellent  claret  in  abundance  ;  I 
sat  at  his  table  once  from  dinner  till  two  in  the  morning,  while 
George  swallowed  immense  potations  with  one  solitary  sodden 
strawberry  in  the  bottom  of  the  glass,  which  he  said  was  recom- 
mended to  him  for  its  cooling  properties.  He  never  lost  his  recol- 
lection or  equilibrium  the  whole  time,  and  was  in  excellent 
foolery ;  it  was  a  singular  coincidence,  that  there  was  a  person 
in  company  who  had  received  his  reprieve  at  the  gallows,  and  the 
very  judge  who  had  passed  sentence  of  death  upon  him.  This 
did  not  in  the  least  disturb  the  harmony  of  the  society  nor  em- 
barrass any  human  creature  present.  All  went  off  perfectly 
smooth,  and  George,  adverting  to  an  original  portrait  of  Dean 
Swift,  which  hung  in  the  room,  told  us  abundance  of  excellent 
and  interesting  anecdotes  of  the  Dean  and  himself,  with  minute 
precision  and  aa  importance  irresistibly  ludicrous.  There  was 
also  a  portrait  of  his  late  lady,  Mrs.  Faulkner,  which  either  made 
the  painter  or  George  a  liar,  for  it  was  frightfully  ugly,  while  he 
swore  she  was  the  most  divine  object  in  creation.  George  prose- 
cuted Foote  for  lampooning  him  on  the  stage  of  Dublin.  His 
counsel,  the  Prime  Serjeant,  compared  him  to  Socrates,  and  his 
libeler  to  Aristophanes.  This,  I  believe,  was  all  that  George 
got  by  his  course  of  law,  but  he  was  told  that  he  had  the  best  of 
the  bargain  in  the  comparison,  and  sat  contented  under  the 
shadow  of  his  laurels." 

The  account  of  Soame  Jenyns  is  no  less  happy. 

"  A  disagreement  about  a  name  or  a  date  will  mar  the  best 
story  that  ever  was  put  together.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  luckily 
would  not  hear  an  interrupter  of  this  sort ;   Johnson  would  not 


•J7li  KKCULI.KCTIONS    OF 

hoar,  or  if  he  hoard,  \\oiilil  not  heed  liim  Soame  Jenyns  heard 
liim,  lioodod  liim,  sol  him  right,  and  took  up  his  tale  where  he 
had  loll  it  witlunit  any  diminution  of  its  humor,  adding  only  a  few 
more  twists  to  his  sniili-hox,  a  few  more  taps  upon  the  lid  of  it, 
wiUi  a  preparatory  grunt  or  two,  the  invariable  forerunner  of  the 
amenity  that  was  at  the  heels  of  them.  He  was  the  man  who 
bore  his  part  in  all  societies  with  the  most  even  temper  and  un- 
disturbed hilarity  of  any  man  I  ever  knew.  He  came  into  your 
house  at  the  very  moment  you  had  put  upon  your  card  ;  he 
dressoil  himself,  to  do  your  party  honor,  in  all  the  colors  of  the 
jay  ;  his  lace,  indeed,  had  long  since  lost  its  luster,  but  his  coat 
had  faithfully  retained  its  cut  since  the  days  when  gentlemen 
wore  embroidered  figured  velvets,  with  short  sleeves,  high  cufTs, 
and  buckram  skirts.  As  Nature  had  cast  him  in  the  exact  mold 
of  an  ill-made  pair  of  stiff  stays,  he  followed  her  so  close  in  the 
iashion  of  his  coat,  that  it  was  doubted  if  he  did  not  wear  them  ; 
because  he  had  a  protuberant  wen  just  under  his  poll,  he  wore  a 
wig  that  did  not  cover  above  half  his  head.  His  eyes  were  pro- 
truded like  the  eyes  of  the  lobster,  who  wears  them  at  the  end  of 
his  feelers,  and  yet  there  was  room  between  one  of  these  and  his 
nose  for  another  wen,  that  added  nothing  to  his  beauty.  Yet  I 
heard  this  good  man  very  innocently  remark,  when  Gibbon  pub- 
lished his  history,  that  he  wondered  any  body  so  ugly  could  write 
a  book. 

"  Such  was  the  exterior  of  a  man  who  was  the  charm  of  the 
circle,  and  gave  a  zest  to  every  company  he  came  into.  His 
pleasantry  was  of  a  sort  peculiar  to  himself;  it  harmonized  with 
ever)'  thing  ;  it  was  like  the  bread  to  your  dinner ;  you  did  not 
perhaps  make  it  the  whole  or  principal  part  of  your  meal,  but  it 
was  an  admirable  and  wholesome  auxiliary  to  your  other  viands. 
Soame  Jenyns  told  you  no  long  stories,  engrossed  not  much  of 
your  attention,  and  was  not  angry  with  those  who  did.  His 
thoughts  were  original,  and  were  apt  to  have  a  very  whimsical 
affmity  to  the  paradox  in  them.  There  was  a  terseness  in  his 
repartees  that  had  a  play  of  words  as  well  as  of  thought,  as  when 
speaking  of  the  difference  of  laying  out  money  upon  land,  or  pur- 
chasing into  the  funds,  he  said  '  One  was  principal  without  interest, 
and  the  other  interest  without  principal.'  " 

Although  the  serious  part  of  "  The  Wheel  of  Fortune,"  that  is 
to  say,  the  whole  character  of  Penruddock  is  admirably  conceived 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  273 

and  admirably  written  (the  recollection  of  John  Kemble  in  that 
play  can  never  be  erased),  Mr.  Cumberland's  power  seemed  to 
desert  him  whenever  he  attempted  tragedy  or  verse  of  any  sort. 
His  lines  on  "  Affectation,"  which  have  great  merit,  form  the  only 
exception  that  I  remember  to  this  assertion  ;  certainly  his  epic  of 
"  Calvary"  does  not ;  neither  does  his  share  in  the  "  Richard  CoBur 
de  Lion,  of  Sir  James  Bland  Burgess." 

AFFECTATION. 

Why,  Aflfectation,  why  this  mock  grimace  ? 
Go,  silly  thing,  and  hide  that  simpering  face ! 
Thy  lisping  prattle,  and  thy  mincing  gait. 
All  thy  false  mimic  fooleries  I  hate ; 
For  those  art  Folly's  counterfeit,  and  she 
Who  is  right  foolish,  hath  the  better  plea : 
Nature's  true  idiot  I  prefer  to  thee. 

Why  that  soft  languish  1     Why  that  drawling  tone  1 
Art  sick  1  art  sleepy  1 — Get  thee  hence:  begone! 
I  laugh  at  all  those  pretty  baby  tears. 
Those  flutterings,  faintings,  and  unreal  fears. 

Can  they  deceive  us?    Can  such  mummeries  move, 
Touch  us  with  pity,  or  inspire  with  love  1 
No,  Affectation,  vain  is  all  thy  art, 
Those  eyes  may  wander  over  every  part. 
They'll  never  find  their  passage  to  the  heart. 

A  great  part  of  Mr.  Cumberland's  amusing  work  is  taken  up 
by  an  account  of  his  disastrous  mission  in  Spain,  which,  unde- 
fined in  its  object,  and  unsuccessful  in  its  result,  brought  nothing 
but  disappointment  to  the  Government  or  the  negotiator.  After 
his  return  from  Madrid,  he  fell  back  upon  literature,  and  closed  a 
long  and  varied  life  in  an  advanced  age  at  Tunbridge  Wells. 


•J71  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


XXII. 

FEMALE   POETS. 

MRS.    CLIVE,    MRS.    ACTON    TINDAL,    MISS    DAY, 
MRS.    ROBERT    BERING. 

There  never  was  a  more  remarkable  contrast  between  the 
temperament  of  the  poetess  and  the  temperament  of  the  woman, 
ihau  that  which  exists  between  the  thoughtful  gravity,  the  al- 
most gloomy  melancholy  that  characterizes  the  writings  of  that 
celebrated  initial  letter,  the  "  V."  of  "  Blackwood's  Magazine," 
and  the  charming,  cheerful,  light-hearted  lady,  known  as  Mrs. 
Clive.  This  discrepancy  has  been  acknowledged  before  now  to 
exist  between  the  tastes  and  the  tempers  of  nations.  The  French 
in  their  old  day,  before  this  last  revolution,  perhaps  before  any 
of  their  revolutions,  the  French  of  our  old  traditions  and  our  old 
travelers,  the  Sternes  and  the  Goldsmiths,  with  their  Watteau 
pageantries,  their  dances  in  the  open  air,  and  their  patient  love 
of  the  deepest  and  most  unmingled  tragedy,  afforded  a  notable 
instance  of  this  contrast.  But  that  which  is  observable  in  Mrs. 
Clive's  case,  is  still  more  striking.  I  have  never  known  any 
creature  half  so  cheerful.  Happy  sister,  happy  mother,  happy 
wife,  she  even  bears  the  burden  of  a  large  fortune  and  a  great 
house  without  the  slightest  diminution  of  the  delightful  animal 
spirits,  which  always  seem  to  me  to  be  of  her  many  gifts  the 
choicest.  Moreover,  enjoyment  seems  to  be  her  mode  of  thank- 
fulness ;  as,  not  content  with  being  happy  herself,  she  has  a  trick 
of  making  every  body  happy  that  comes  near  her.  I  do  not 
know  how  she  contrives  it,  but  such  is  the  effect.  There  is  no 
resisting  the  contagious  laughter  of  those  dancing  eyes. 

As,  however,  every  body  that  thinks  deeply,  as  she  does,  must 
have  some  moments  of  sadness,  she  is  content  to  put  them  into 
her  writings  :  sometimes  in  prose,  for  her  "  Story  of  the  Great 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  276 

Drought"  has  an  intensity  of  tragic  power,  a  realization  of  im- 
possible horrors,  such  as  gave  their  fascination  to  the  best  works 
of  Godwin  ;  sometimes  in  verse,  where  the  depth  of  thought  and 
fearless  oi'iginality  of  treatment,  frequently  redeem  the  commonest 
subject  from  any  thing  like  commonplace.     Here  is  an  example  : 

THE  GRAVE. 

I  stood  within  the  grave's  o'ershadowing  vault ; 

Gloomy  and  damp,  it  stretched  its  vast  domain ; 
Shades  were  its  boundary ;  for  my  strained  eye  sought 

For  other  Umits  to  its  width  in  vain. 

Faint  from  the  entrance  came  a  daylight  ray, 

And  distant  sound  of  living  men  and  things ; 
This,  in  the  encountering  darkness  passed  away. 

That,  took  the  tone  in  which  a  mourner  sings. 

I  lit  a  torch  at  a  sepulchral  lamp, 
Which  shot  a  thread  of  light  amid  the  gloom ; 

And  feebly  burning  'gainst  the  rolling  damp, 
I  bore  it  through  the  regions  of  the  tomb. 

Around  me  stretched  the  slumbers  of  the  dead. 

Whereof  the  silence  ached  upon  mine  ear ; 
More  and  more  noiseless  did  I  note  my  tread. 

And  yet  its  echoes  chilled  my  heart  with  fear. 

The  former  men  of  every  age  and  place, 
From  all  their  wanderings,  gathered  round  me  lay ; 

The  dust  of  withered  empires  did  I  trace, 
And  stood  'mid  generations  passed  away. 

I  saw  whole  cities,  that  in  flood  or  fire, 

Or  famine,  or  the  plague,  gave  up  their  breath ; 

Whole  armies,  whom  a  day  beheld  expire, 
Swept  by  ten  thousands  to  the  arms  of  death. 

I  saw  the  Old  World's  white  and  wave-swept  bones, 

A  giant  heap  of  creatures  that  had  been ; 
Far  and  confused  the  broken  skeletons 

Lay  strewn  beyond  mine  eyes'  remotest  ken. 

Death's  various  shrines — the  urn,  the  stone,  the  lamp — 
Were  scattered  round  confVised  amid  the  dead ; 

Symbols  and  types  were  moldering  in  the  damp, 
Their  shapes  were  wanting  and  their  meaning  fled. 


270  RECOLLKCTIONS    OF 

Uns|)okon  tonjrucs.  !)ercliaiic<.'  in  jn-aiso  or  woe, 

Woti'  clironioli-tl  <>ii  tablets  Time  liad  swept ; 
Aiul  deep  were  half  their  letters  hid  below 

Tlie  thick,  small  dust  of  those  they  once  had  wept. 

No  hand  was  here  to  wipe  the  dust  away ; 

No  reader  of  the  writing  traced  beneath  ; 
No  spirit  sitting  by  its  form  of  clay  ; 

No  sigJi  nor  sound  from  all  the  heaps  of  death. 

One  place  alone  had  ceased  to  hold  its  prey ; 

A  form  had  pressed  it  and  was  there  no  more ; 
The  garments  of  the  grave  beside  it  lay, 

Where  once  they  wrapped  HIM  on  the  rocky  floor. 

HE  only  witli  returning  footsteps  broke 
The  eternal  calm  with  which  the  tomb  was  bound  ; 

Among  the  sleeping  dead  alone  HE  woke 
And  blessed  with  outstretched  hands  the  host  around. 

Well  is  it  that  such  blessing  hovers  here, 

To  soothe  each  sad  survivor  of  tlie  tlirong 
Who  haunt  the  portals  of  the  solemn  sphere, 

And  pour  their  woe  the  loaded  air  along. 

They  to  the  verge  have  followed  what  they  love, 

And  on  the  insuperable  threshold  stand ; 
With  cherished  names  its  speechless  calm  reprove. 

And  stretch  in  the  abyss  their  ungrasped  hand. 

But  vainly  there  they  seek  their  soul's  relief. 
And  of  the  obdurate  Grave  its  prey  implore ; 

Till  death  himself  shall  medicine  their  grief. 
Closing  their  eyes  by  those  they  met  before. 

All  that  have  died,  the  earth's  whole  race,  repose 
Where  Death  collects  his  treasures,  heap  on  heap ; 

O'er  each  one's  busy  day  the  nightshades  close  ; 
Its  actors,  sufferers,  schools,  kings,  armies — sleep. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  frame  a  better  wish  for  the  writer  and 
llie  woman,  than  that  both  may  remain  unchanged — that  the 
shadow  may  still  cast  its  deep  and  thoughtful  vail  over  the  poetry 
and  the  sunshine,  and  the  blessing  rest  upon  the  life  ! 

The  exact  reverse  of  Mrs.  Clive  may  be  found  in  Mrs.  Acton 
Tindal,  whose  verse,  so  free,  so  buoyant,  so  firm,  and  so  graceful, 
derives  most  of  its  charm  from  its  resemblance  to  the  sweet  and 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  277 

lovely  creature  by  whom  it  was  written.  There  is  a  sparkling 
vividness  in  her  style,  which  has  the  life  and  color  of  painting. 
The  very  choice  of  her  subjects  is  picturesque.  With  an  extent 
and  variety  of  reading,  remarkable  even  now  in  one  of  the  young- 
est of  our  female  writers,  she  instinctively  fixes  upon  some  theme 
of  processional  grace  and  beauty,  and  throws  all  the  truth  and 
tenderness  of  her  sentiment  around  figures  already  interesting  by 
historical  association.  The  "  Infant  Bridal"  might  be  transferred 
to  canvas  without  altering  a  word. 

"  Richard  Duke  of  York,  second  son  of  Edward  IV.,  was  mar- 
ried to  Anne  Mowbray,  Duchess  of  Norfolk  in  her  own  right. 
The  bridegroom  was  not  five  years  old,  and  the  bride  scarcely 
three.  The  ceremony  was  performed  in  St.  Stephen's  Chapel, 
A.D.  1477." 

The  sunbeams  of  the  early  day 

Streamed  through  the  lattice  grim, 
And  up  the  dark  aisle's  pillared  way 

Swelled  loud  the  nuptial  hymn  ; 
And  passed  along  a  gorgeous  band 

Of  courtly  dames  and  fair, 
Of  belted  barons  of  the  land 

The  bravest  best  were  there. 

But  slowly  moved  the  bright  array, 

For  gently  at  its  head 
Two  blooming  children  led  the  way 

With  short  and  doubtful  tread : 
The  fair  boy-bridegroom  and  the  bride, 

(Like  Cupid's  train  in  eld,) 
Meekly  and  loving,  side  by  side. 

Each  other's  hands  they  held. 

Half  pleased  and  half  surprised  they  seemed. 

For  in  each  kindred  eye 
Love  mixed  with  pity  fondly  gleamed. 

And  mournful  gravity. 
A  fear,  for  them  who  knew  no  fear. 

On  each  heart  darkly  fell ; 
They  view  life's  future  through  a  tear 

Who  know  the  j)ast  too  well. 

The  bridegroom  bore  a  royal  crown 

Amid  the  .shining  hair. 
That  like  a  golden  vail  fell  down 

In  tresses  soft  and  fair. 


278  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Tlio  U'iiring  of  the  noble  child 

Mis  princely  lineage  told, 
Beneath  that  brow  so  smooth  and  mild 

The  blood  of  warriors  rolled. 

All  coyly  went  the  sweet  babe-bride ; 

Yet  oft  with  simple  grace, 
She  raised,  soft-stepping  by  his  side. 

Her  dark  eyes  to  his  face. 
And  playfellows  who  loved  her  well 

Crowns  of  white  roses  bore. 
And  lived  in  after  years  to  tell 

The  infant  bridal  o'er. 

Then  words  of  import  strange  and  deep 

The  hoary  prelate  said, 
And  some  had  turned  away  to  weep. 

And  many  bowed  the  head. 
Their  steady  gaze  those  children  meek 
'  Upon  the  old  man  bent, 

As  earnestly  they  seemed  to  seek 

The  solemn  words'  intent. 

Calm  in  the  blest  simplicity 

That  never  woke  to  doubt ; 
Calm  in  the  holy  purity 

Whose  presence  bars  shame  out ! 
Then  turned  they  from  each  troubled  brow 

And  many  a  downcast  eye, 
And  gaxed  upon  each  other  now 

In  wondering  sympathy ; 

And  nestled  close,  with  looks  of  love, 

Upon  the  altar's  stone  : 
Such  ties  as  Seraphs  bind  above 

These  little  ones  might  own. 
And  sweetly  was  the  babe-bride's  cheek 

Against  the  fair  boy  pressed, 
All  reverent,  yet  so  fond  and  meek, 

As  kneeling  to  be  blest. 

Then  smiled  they  on  their  grand  array 

And  went  forth  hand  in  hand, 
Well  pleased  to  keep  high  holyday 

Amid  that  gorgeous  band. 
Alas !  for  those  that  early  wed 

With  such  prophetic  gloom, 
For  sadly  fell  on  each  young  head 

The  shadow  of  the  tomb  ! 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  279 

Scarce  had  the  blossoms  died  away 

Of  the  rose-wreaths  they  wore, 
When  to  her  moldering  ancestry 

The  little  bride  they  bore. 
Her  marriage  garlands  o'er  her  bier, 

Bedewed  with  tears,  were  cast ; 
And  still  she  smiled  as  though  no  fear 

O'erclouded  her  at  last. 

A  life  as  short,  and  darker  doom 

The  gentle  boy  befell : 
He  slept  not  in  his  father's  tomb, 

For  him  was  heard  no  knell! 
One  stifling  pang  amid  his  sleep 

And  the  dark  vale  was  passed! 
He  woke  with  those  who've  ceased  to  weep, 

Whose  sun  is  ne'er  o'ercast. 

A  garland  floats  around  the  throne, 

Entwined  by  angel  hands, 
Of  such  fair  earth-buds,  newly  blown, 

Culled  from  a  thousand  lands. 
A  melody  most  pure  and  sweet 

Unceasingly  they  sing. 
And  blossoms  o'er  the  mercy-seat 

The  loved  babe-angels  fling! 

I  have  now  to  introduce  another  fair  artist  into  the  female 
gallery  of  which  I  am  so  proud  ;  an  artist  whose  works  seem  to 
me  to  bear  the  same  relation  to  sculpture  that  those  of  Mrs.  Acton 
Tindal  do  to  painting.  The  poetry  of  Miss  Day  is  statuesque  in 
its  dignity,  in  its  purity,  in  its  repose.  Purity  is  perhaps  the  dis- 
tinguishing quality  of  this  fine  writer,  pervading  the  conception, 
the  thoughts  and  the  diction.  But  she  must  speak  for  herself 
As  "  The  Infant  Bridal"  might  form  a  sketch  for  an  historical 
picture,  so  "  Charlotte  Corday"  is  a  model,  standing  ready  to  be 
chiseled  in  Parian  stone. 

Stately,  and  beautiful,  and  chaste, 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  maid, 
Her  blood  to  yield,  her  youth  to  waste. 

That  carnage  might  be  stayed. 
This  solemn  purpose  filled  her  soul. 

There  was  no  room  for  fear. 
She  heard  the  cry  of  vengeance  roll 

Proijhetic  on  her  ear. 


2S0  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 

yiio  thought  to  atom  the  course  of  crime 

By  one  upiwlling  deed, 
She  knew  to  perish  in  her  prime 

Alone  would  be  her  meed. 
No  tremor  shook  her  woman's  breast, 

No  terror  blanched  her  brow, 
She  spoke,  she  smiled,  she  took  her  rest, 

And  hidden  held  her  vow. 

She  mused  upon  her  country's  wrong, 

Upon  the  tyrant's  guilt. 
Her  settled  purpose  grew  more  strong 

As  blood  was  freshly  spilt : 
What  though  the  fair  smooth  hand  were  slight  !- 

It  grasped  the  sharpened  steel ; 
A  triumph  flashed  before  her  sight 

The  death  that  it  should  deal. 

She  sought  her  victim  in  his  den — 

The  tiger  in  his  lair; 
And  though  she  found  him  feeble  tht-n, 

There  was  no  thought  to  spare. 
Fast  through  his  dying  guilty  heart. 

That  pity  yet  withstood. 
She  made  her  gleaming  weapon  dart, 

And  stained  her  soul  with  blood. 

She  bore  the  buffets  and  the  jeer 

Of  an  infuriate  crowd  ; 
She  asked  no  grace,  she  showed  no  fear, 

She  owned  her  act  aloud. 
She  only  quailed  when  woman's  cries 

Bewailed  the  monster's  fate ; 
Her  lips  betrayed  her  soul's  surprise 

That  fiends  gained  aught  but  hate. 

She  justified  her  deed  of  blood 

In  stem,  exalted  phrase, 
As  in  the  judgment-hall  she  stood 

With  calm,  intrepid  gaze. 
And  when  she  heard  her  awful  doom, 

Before  the  morn  to  die, 
Her  cheek  assumed  a  brighter  bloom. 

And  triumph  lit  her  eye. 

She  marked  a  painter's  earnest  gaze, 

She  raised  to  him  her  face. 
That  he  for  men  in  other  days 

Iler  raptured  mien  might  trace. 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  281 

Some  bold  heroic  words  she  penned 

To  him  her  life  who  gave, 
And  as  approached  her  fearful  end 

Her  soul  grew  yet  more  brave. 

She  wore  the  bonds,  the  robe  of  red, 

As  martyrs  wear  their  crown ; 
She  begged  no  mercy  on  her  head, 

She  called  no  curses  down; 
It  was  enough  that  she  fulfilled 

The  work  that  was  decreed ; 
It  was  enough  a  voice  was  stilled 

That  doomed  the  just  to  bleed. 

So  beautiful,  so  filled  with  life. 

So  doomed,  she  passed  along 
Above  the  sense,  the  sound  of  strife, 

Alone  in  the  vast  throng. 
Some  with  mute  reverence  lowly  bowed. 

As  thus  the  victim  went ; 
And  some  outpouring  hatred  loud, 

The  air  with  curses  rent. 

Without  one  tint  of  fresh  youth  paled, 

Without  one  quivering  breath, 
Without  one  step  that  weakly  failed. 

That  maiden  sped  to  death ; 
And  with  her  lips  yet  glowing  red. 

And  bright  her  beaming  eyes. 
To  the  sharp  axe  she  bowed  her  head, 

And  closed  her  sacrifice. 

Yet  two  more  female  figures,  embodying  a  stern  lesson. 

THE  TWO  MAUDES. 

Broidered  robe,  bespangled  vest. 
Raiment  for  a  palace  guest. 

Wears  proud  Maude  to-night; 
And  her  haughty  smile  is  gay. 
As  shines  forth  that  rich  array 

In  the  mirror  bright. 

Now,  with  triumph  on  her  cheek, 
And  with  looks  that  conquest  speak, 

See  her  pass  along ; 
Listen  to  the  murmured  praise, 
Mark  the  fixed  admiring  gaze 

Of  the  courtly  throng ! 


282  UK  COL  LECTIONS     OF 

Now  she  joins  the  stately  dance, 
And  her  tutored  grace  eneliants, 

Faultless  is  her  mien ; 
And  of  all  the  lovely  crowd 
She  can  hear  it  whispered  loud 

She  to-uight  is  queen. 

And  of  all  the  vestments  there 
Hers  is  richest  and  most  rare, 

Wondrous  is  its  cost ; 
With  apparel  of  less  pride, 
Where  so  many  shone  beside 

She  had  triumph  lost. 

Therefore  'twas  she  gave  command, 
When  the  courtly  ball  was  planned, 

That  her  robe  should  be, 
Though  the  time  for  toil  was  brief, 
With  the  choicest  flower  and  leaf 

Rich  in  broidery. 

If  for  this  be  weary  sighs, 
If  for  this  be  sleepless  eyes, 
She  no  less  will  shine ; 
Unimpaired  her  bloom  shall  be, 
And  from  care  her  bosom  free, 
..  In  her  vesture  fine. 


Broidered  robe,  bespangled  vest, 
Raiment  for  a  palace  guest, 

Maude  the  poor  hath  wrought ; 
She  who  as  a  May-day  queen 
Danced  upon  the  village  green, 

Of  gay  Nature  taught. 

Then  the  sunshine,  breeze  and  shower 
Played  with  her  as  with  a  flower; 

Ruddy  bloom  had  she : 
As  a  balmy  blushing  morn, 
When  the  rose  blows,  and  the  thorn, 

She  was  sweet  to  see. 

Now  with  pallor  on  her  cheek. 
And  with  looks  that  sadness  speak. 

See  her  languid  rise ; 
Listen  to  the  harsh  command. 
See  her  faint  and  trembling  stand. 

While  her  task  she  plies. 


A    LITEKARY    LIFE.  283 

Thronging  to  her  spirit  come 
Memories  of  village  home, 

Bee  and  flower  and  bird, 
Ruddy  beam  of  early  day, 
White-fleeced  lambs,  in  sportive  play, 

Low  of  dappled  herd. 

Breezy  breath  of  heath-crossed  hill, 
Silvery  sound  of  trickling  rill. 

Bank  where  violets  grow  ; 
And  her  heart  is  throbbing  fast, 
With  these  pictures  of  the  past, 

But  no  tears  may  flow. 

Fevered  is  her  low-bent  brow. 
Wasted  are  her  young  limbs  now, 

Joy  hath  lost  its  home: 
Short  the  respite  for  relief, 
Stolen  slumbers  far  too  brief 

For  soft  dreams  to  come. 

Tainted  is  the  air  she  breathes, 
Perfumeless  the  gaud  she  wreathes, 

Garland  false  and  cold. 
And  the  hearts  around  her  seem 
As  its  flowers  of  mimic  beam, 

They  no  balm  unfold. 

Now  before  her  dazzled  eyes 
Lurid  phantasms  arise. 

Light  is  wasting  fleet, 
And  the  laborer  more  intent, 
Lest  the  fitful  ray  be  spent 

Ere  her  task's  complete. 

But  the  darkness  gathers  fast. 
And  she  scarcely  knows  at  last 

How  her  fingers  ply ; 
And  she  thinks  it  wondrous  soon. 
Since  the  hour  of  glaring  noon 

That  the  night  is  high. 

Now  her  work  is  done. — Behold, 
Ye  who  shine  in  silk  and  gold, 

What  is  its  high  cost ! 
She,  who  strove  at  your  behest, 
She,  whose  eyes  were  robbed  of  rest, 

Sight  through  toil  hath  lost. 


284  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Wno  to  you,  vain  child  of  clay ! 
Woo  to  you  in  robes  so  gay, 

(juccns  might  envy  them! 
You  with  jewels  overdone. 
Her  have  robbed  who  had  but  ono 

Of  a  priceless  gem  ! 

Xo  words  of  mine  could  add  to  the  force  and  eloquence  of  this 
ploadiuiT — 1  had  almost  said  of  this  fulmination.  What  I  would 
add,  should  go  rather  in  mitigation  of  the  crime  imputed  to  the 
courtly  beauty.  Selfish  as  vanity  is — dangerous  as  leading  to  all 
the  sins  that  follow  upon  frivolity,  I  have  a  true  faith  in  the 
general  kindliness  and  the  general  good  training  of  our  young 
countrywomen,  whether  of  the  village  green,  or  of  the  palace 
circle.  I  do  not  believe  that  any  English  lady  would  knowingly 
purchase  a  splendid  dress  at  the  cost  of  health  to  the  artificer. 
Let  them  once  think — let  them  once  be  brought  to  think  whether 
they  can  reasonably  expect  their  orders  to  be  executed  within  a 
given  time,  and  what  may  be  the  amount  of  suffering  caused  by 
such  execution,  and,  my  life  upon  it,  our  Lady  Maudes  would 
give  up  their  furbelows,  and  their  embroideries,  and  trust  to  their 
native  charms  of  grace  and  modesty  to  win  as  much  admiration 
as  they  know  what  to  do  with.  But  then  they  must  be  taught 
to  think  ;  and  in  all  matters  of  humanity,  they  could  hardly  find 
finer  precepts  than  in  the  poems  of  Miss  Day. 

These  lady  poets  are  all  my  friends  :  I  add  yet  another,  per- 
sonally a  stranger,  but  still  a  friend,  to  the  list — Mrs.  Robert 
Dering. 

CHURCH   SERVICES. 

The  chimes  from  yonder  steeple 

Ring  merrily  and  loud, 
And  groups  of  eager  people 
1  Toward  their  music  crowd. 

Before  the  altai-'s  railing 

A  bride  and  bridegroom  stand, 
And  lacy  folds  are  vailing 

The  loveliest  in  the  land. 

And  every  ear  is  trying, 

While  all  beside  is  still. 
To  hear  the  bride  replying 

Her  soft  but  firm  "  I  will." 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  285 

The  soft  "  I  will"  is  spoken, 

A  glance  as  soft  exchanged, — 
That  vow  shall  ne'er  be  broken, 

Nor  those  fond  hearts  estranged. 

Another  train  advances 

No  bridal  train  is  this, 
Yet  there  are  joyous  glances, 

And  whispered  words  of  bliss. 

With  youthful  pride  and  pleasure 

Approach  a  happy  pair. 
Their  first  and  darling  treasure 

Within  the  church  they  bear 

Their  babe  is  now  receiving 

Upon  its  placid  face, 
The  badge  of  the  believing, 

The  holy  sign  of  grace. 

Sweet  babe  !  this  world  is  hollow, 

A  world  of  woe  and  strife. 
Take  up  thy  cross  and  follow 

Where  leads  the  Lord  of  Life. 

Another  train  is  wending 

Within  the  church  its  way, 
While  prayers  are  still  ascending 

For  blessings  on  that  day. 

But  here  no  bride  is  blushing; 

And  here  no  babe  is  blest ; 
But  mourners'  tears  are  gushing 

For  one  laid  down  to  rest. 

Bright  dawns  the  bridal  morning; 

The  font  to  us  is  dear ; 
But  come,  and  hear  the  warning 

That's  spoken  to  us  here ! 

A  blight  may  soon  be  falling 

On  joys  however  pure. 
But  let  us  make  our  calling 

And  our  election  sure. 

And  then  the  day  of  sorrow 

Which  lays  us  in  the  earth. 
Shall  have  a  brighter  morrow 

Than  that  which  saw  our  birth. 


286  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Tlio  swootnoss  and  melody  of  these  stanzas,  as  well  as  their 
pervaiHiip  holiness,  render  them  no  unfitting  conehision  to  this 
httle  garland  of  verses,  varying  in  manner,  but  of  which  we  may 
truly  say  that  they  are  in  tone  and  feeling  most  English  and 
most  feminine. 


A    LITEEARY    LIFE.  287 


XXIII. 

CAVALIER   POETS. 

RICHARD    LOVELACE,    ROGER    l'eSTRANGE,    THE    MARQUIS    OF 
MONTROSE. 

If  there  he  one  thing  more  than  another  in  the  nice  balance 
of  tastes  and  prejudices  (for  I  do  not  speak  here  of  principles) 
which  inclines  us  now  to  the  elegance  of  Charles,  now  to  the 
strength  of  Cromwell — which  disgusts  us  alternately  with  the 
license  of  the  Cavaliers  and  the  fanaticism  of  the  Roundheads  ; 
it  would  be  the  melancholy  ruin  of  cast-down  castles  and  plun- 
dered shrines,  that  meet  our  eyes  all  over  our  fair  land,  and  no- 
where in  greater  profusion  than  in  this  district,  lying  as  it  does  in 
the  very  midst  of  some  of  the  most  celebrated  battles  of  the  Civil 
Wars.  To  say  nothing  of  the  siege  of  Reading,  which  more  even 
than  the  vandalism  of  the  Reformation  completed  the  destruction 
of  that  noble  abbey,  the  third  in  rank  and  size  in  England,  with 
its  magnificent  church,  its  cloisters,  and  its  halls,  covering  thirty 
acres  of  buildings — and  such  buildings  I  within  the  outer  courts  ; 
— to  say  nothing  of  that  most  reckless  barbarity  just  at  our  door 
— we  in  our  little  village  of  Aberleigh  lie  between  Basing-House 
to  the  south,  whose  desperately  defended  walls  offer  little  more 
now  than  a  mere  site — and  Donnington  to  the  west,  where  the 
ruined  Gate  towers  upon  the  hill  alone  remain  of  that  strong  for- 
tress, which  overlooked  the  well-contested  field  of  Newbury — and 
Chalgrove  to  the  north,  where  the  reaper  as  he  binds  his  sheaf,  still 
pauses  to  tell  you  the  very  place  where  Hampden  fell  ;  every  spot 
has  its  history  !  Look  at  a  wooden  spire,  and  your  companion 
shakes  his  head,  and  says  that  it  has  been  so  ever  since  the  Cava- 
liers were  blown  up  in  the  church-tower  I  Ask  the  history  of  a 
crumbling  wall,  and  the  answer.^  is  pretty  sure  to  be,  Cromwell ! 
That  his  Hijrhncss  the  Lord  Protector  did  leave  what  an  accom- 


2SS  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

jilislu'il  iVieiul  of  mine  calls  "  his  peculiar  impressions"  upon  a 
jiroat  many  places  in  our  neighborhood  is  pretty  certain  ;  on  so 
many,  that  there  is  no  actual  or  authentic  catalogue  of  all  ;  and 
in  some  cases  there  is  nothing  but  general  tradition,  and  the  na- 
ture of  the  "  impressions"  in  question,  to  vouch  for  the  fact  of 
their  destruction  at  that  period. 

Among  these,  one  of  the  edifices  that  must  have  been  best 
worth  preserving,  and  is  even  now  most  interesting  to  see,  is  the 
grand  old  castellated  mansion,  which  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth 
belonged  to  one  of  her  favorite  courtiers,  and  was  known  as  Mas- 
ter Comptroller's  House,  at  Grays. 

The  very  road  to  it  is  singularly  interesting.  Passing  through 
the  town,  which  increases  in  growth  every  day,  until  one  wonders 
when  and  where  it  will  stop,  and  looking  with  ever-fresh  admira- 
tion at  the  beautiful  lace-work  window  of  the  old  Friary,  which 
I  long  to  see  preserved  in  the  fitliest  manner,  by  forming  again 
the  chief  ornament  of  a  church,  and  then  driving  under  the  arch 
of  the  Great  Western  Railway,  and  feeling  the  strange  vibration 
of  some  monster  train  passing  over  our  heads — a  proceeding  which 
never  fails  to  make  my  pony  show  off  his  choicest  airs  and  graces, 
]  ricking  up  his  pretty  ears,  tossing  his  slender  head,  dancing  upon 
four  feet,  and  sometimes  rearing  upon  two — we  arrive  at  the  long, 
low,  picturesque  old  bridge,  the  oldest  of  all  the  bridges  that  cross 
the  Thames,  so  narrow  that  no  two  vehicles  can  pass  at  once,  and 
that  over  every  pier  triangular  spaces  have  been  devised  for  the 
safety  of  foot-passengers.  On  the  center  arch  is  a  fisherman's 
hut,  occupying  the  place  once  filled  by  a  friar's  cell,  and  covering 
a  still  existing  chapel,  dedicated  to  the  Virgin  Mar)',  noAv  put  to 
secular  uses — a  dairy  or  a  cellar. 

A  little  way  down  the  river  is  one  of  the  beautiful  islands  of 
the  Thames,  now  a  smooth  and  verdant  meadow,  edged  round 
with  old  willow  pollards  calmly  reflected  in  the  bright,  clear 
waters,  but  giving  back  in  the  twelfth  century  a  far  different 
scene.  Here  was  fought  a  wager  of  battle  between  Robert  de 
Montford,  appellant,  and  Henry  de  Essex,  hereditary  Standard- 
bearer  of  the  Kings  of  England,  defendant,  by  command,  and  iu 
the  presence  of  Henry  the  Second.  The  story  is  told  very  mi- 
nutely and  graphically  by  Stowe.  Robert  de  Montford  at  length 
struck  down  his  adversary,  "  who  fell,"  says  the  old  historian, 
"  after  receiving  many  woutids  ;   and   the  King,  at  the  request  of 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  289 

several  noblemen,  his  relations,  gave  permission  to  the  monks  to 
inter  the  body,  commanding  that  no  further  violence  should  be 
offered  to  it.  The  monks  took  up  the  vanquished  knight,  and 
carried  him  into  the  abbey,  where  he  revived.  When  he  re- 
covered from  his  wounds,  he  was  received  into  the  community, 
and  assumed  the  habit  of  the  order,  his  lands  being  forfeited  to 
the  King."  I  have  always  thought  that  this  story  would  afford 
excellent  scope  to  some  great  novelist,  who  might  give  a  fair  and 
accurate  picture  of  monastic  life,  and,  indeed,  of  the  monastic 
orders,  as  landlords,  neighbors,  teachers,  priests,  without  any  mix- 
ture of  controversial  theology,  or  inventing  any  predecessors  of 
Luther  or  Wicliffe.  How  we  should  have  liked  to  have  heard  all 
about  "  The  Monastery,"  about  the  "  Abbot,"  and  Father  Eustace, 
untroubled  by  Henry  Warden  or  John  Knox  I  From  the  moment 
that  they  appear,  our  comfort  in  the  book  vanishes,  just  as  com- 
pletely as  that  of  the  good  easy  Abbot  Boniface  himself.  There 
we  are  in  the  middle  of  vexed  questions,  with  the  beautiful  pile 
of  Melrose  threatening  every  moment  to  fall  about  our  ears ! 

Our  business  now,  however,  is  to  get  over  the  bridge,  which 
after  the  excitement  of  one  dispute  with  a  pugnacious  carrier,  and 
another  with  a  saucy  groom,  whose  caracoling  horse  had  well 
nigh  leaped  over  the  parapets  on  either  side  ;  after  some  backing 
of  other  carriages,  and  some  danger  of  being  forced  to  back  our 
own,  we  at  last  achieve,  and  enter  unscathed,  the  pleasant  village 
of  Caversham. 

To  the  left,  through  a  highly  ornamented  lodge,  lies  the  road 
to  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Blounts,  a  house  made  famous  by  Pope, 
where  the  fair  ladies  of  his  love,  the  sisters  Martha  and  Teresa, 
lived  and  died.  A  fine  old  place  it  is  ;  and  a  picturesque  road 
leads  to  it,  winding  through  a  tract  called  the  Warren,  between 
the  high  chalk-cliffs,  clothed  with  trees  of  all  varieties,  that  for  so 
many  miles  fence  in  the  northern  side  of  the  Thames,  and  the 
lordly  river  itself,  now  concealed  by  tall  elms,  now  open  and  shin- 
ing in  the  full  light  of  the  summer  sun.  There  is  not  such  a 
flower-bank  in  Oxfordshire  as  Caversham  Warren. 

Our  way,  however,  leads  straight  on.  A  few  miles  farther, 
and  a  turn  to  the  right  conducts  us  to  one  of  the  grand  old  village 
churches,  which  give  so  much  of  character  to  English  landscape. 
A  large  and  beautiful  pile  it  is.  The  tower  half  clothed  with 
ivy,  standing  with  its  charming  vicarage  and  its  pretty  vicarago- 

N 


200  KKCULr.  KCTIONS    OK 

•jarilon  on  a  high  ominence,  overhanfring  one  of  the  fine.-t  bends 
of  the  <ireal  river.  A  woody  lane  leads  iVom  the  church  to  tlie 
bottom  of  the  chalk-clifl',  one  side  of  which  stands  out  from  the 
road  below,  like  a  promontory,  surmounted  by  the  laurel  hedges 
and  llowery  arbors  of  the  vicarage-garden,  and  crested  by  a  noble 
cedar  of  Lebanon.  This  is  Shiplake  church,  famed  far  and  near 
for  its  magnillcent  oak  carving,  and  the  rich  painted  glass  of  its 
windows.,  collected,  long  before  such  adornments  were  fashiona- 
ble, by  the  fine  taste  of  the  late  vicar,  and  therefore  filled  M'ith 
the  very  choicest  specimens  of  mediaeval  art,  chiefly  obtained 
from  the  remains  of  the  celebrated  Abbey  of  St.  Bertin,  near  St. 
Omers,  sacked  during  the  first  French  Revolution.  In  this 
church  Alfred  Tennyson  was  married.  Blessings  be  upon  him  ! 
I  never  saw  the  great  Poet  in  my  life,  but  thousands  who  never 
may  have  seen  him  either,  but  who  owe  to  his  poetry  the  purest 
and  richest  intellectual  enjoyment,  will  echo  and  re-echo  the 
benison. 

A  little  way  farther,  and  a  turn  to  the  left  leads  to  another 
spot  consecrated  by  genius — Woodcot,  where  Sir  Edward  Bulwer 
Lytton  passed  the  earlier  years  of  his  married  life,  and  wrote 
several  of  his  most  powerful  novels.  I  have  always  thought  that 
the  scenery  of  Paul  ClifTord  caught  some  of  its  tone  from  that 
wild  and  beautiful  country,  for  wild  and  beautiful  it  is.  The 
terrace  in  the  grounds  commands  a  most  extensive  prospect ;  and 
beneath  a  clump  of  trees  on  the  common  behind  the  house,  is  the 
only  spot  where  on  a  clear  day  AVindsor  may  be  seen  on  one  side, 
and  Oxford  on  the  other — looking  almost  like  the  domes  and 
towers  and  pinnacles  that  sometimes  appear  in  the  clouds — a 
fairy  picture  that  the  next  breeze  may  waft  away !  This  beau- 
tiful residence  stands  so  high,  that  one  of  its  former  possessors. 
Admiral  Fraser  (grandfather  to  that  dear  friend  of  mine  who  is 
the  present  owner)  could  discover  Woodcot  Clump  from  the  mast 
of  his  own  ship  at  Spithead,  a  distance  of  sixty  miles. 

Wyfold's  Court,  another  pretty  place  a  little  farther  on,  which 
also  belonged  once  to  a  most  dear  friend,  possesses  the  finest 
Wych-elms  in  England.  Artists  come  from  far  and  near  to 
paint  these  stately  trees,  whose  down-dropping  branches  and 
magnificent  height  are  at  once  so  graceful  and  so  rich.  They 
arc  said  always  to  indicate  ecclesiastical  possession,  but  no  trace 
of  such  dependoticv  is  to  be  found    in   the  titlo-dfeds,  nr  in  the 


A     LITERARY     LIFE.  291 

tenure  by  Avhicli  in  feudal  times  the  lands  were  held — that  of 
presenting  a  rose  to  the  King,  should  he  pass  by  a  certain  road  on 
a  May-day. 

And  now  we  approach  Rotherfield  Grays — its  bowery  lanes, 
its  wild,  rugged  commons,  and  its  vast  beech  woods,  from  the 
edge  of  which  projects,  every  here  and  there,  a  huge  cherry-tree, 
looking,  in  the  blossoming  spring-time,  as  if  carved  in  ivory,  so 
exquisite  is  the  whiteness,  casting  upon  the  ferny  turf  underneath 
showers  of  snowy  petals  that  blanch  the  very  ground,  and  diffus- 
ing around  an  almond-like  odor,  that  mingles  with  the  springing 
thyme  and  the  flowering  gorse,  and  loads  the  very  air  with  its 
balm. 

Exquisite  is  the  pleasantness  of  these  beech  woods,  where  tlie 
light  is  green  from  the  silky  verdure  of  the  young  leaves,  and 
where  the  mossy  woodpaths  are  embroidered  with  thousands  of 
flowers,  from  the  earliest  violet  and  primrose,  the  wood-anemone, 
the  wood-sorrel,  the  daffodil,  and  the  wild  hyacinth  of  spring,  to 
the  wood- vetch,  the  woodroof,  the  campanulas,  and  the  orchises 
of  summer ; — for  all  the  English  orchises  are  here  :  that  which 
fjo  curiously  imitates  the  dead  oak  leaf,  that  again  which  imitates 
the  human  figure  ;  the  commonest  but  most  pretty  bee  orchis, 
and  the  parallel  ones  which  are  called  after  the  spider,  the  frog, 
and  the  fly.  Strange  freak  of  nature,  thus,  in  a  lower  order  of 
creation,  to  mimic  her  own  handy-works  in  a  higher  I — to  mimic 
even  our  human  mimicry  ! — for  that  which  is  called  the  man 
orchis  is  most  like  the  imitation  of  a  human  figure  that  a  child 
might  cut  from  colored  paper.  Strange,  strange  mimicry !  but 
full  of  variety,  full  of  beauty,  full  of  odor.  Of  all  the  fragrant 
blossoms  that  haunt  the  woods,  I  know  none  so  exquisite  as  that 
night-scented  orchis  which  is  called  indifferently,  the  butterfly  or 
the  lily  of  the  vally.  Another  glory  of  these  woods,  an  autum- 
nal glory,  is  the  whole  fungus  tribe,  various  and  innumerable  as 
the  mosses ;  from  the  sober  drab-colored  fungi,  spotted  with 
white,  which  so  much  resemble  a  sea-egg,  to  those  whose  deep 
and  gorgeous  hues  would  shame  the  tinting  of  an  Indian  shell. 
Truffles,  too,  are  found  beneath  the  earth  ;  and  above  it  are  de- 
posited huge  masses  of  the  strange  compound  called  in  modern 
geological  phrase  Agglomerate.  Flint,  and  coral,  and  gravel, 
and  attrited  pebbles  enter  into  the  combination  of  lliis  extraordi- 
nary natural  conglomeration,  which  no  steel,  however  hardened, 


202  UKCOLLECTIOXS    OF 

can  soparato,  and  which  seems  to  have  been  imitalcc]  very  suc- 
cessfiillv  by  the  oUl  builders  in  their  cements  and  the  substances 
used  in  the  filling  up  of  their  grandest  structures,  as  may  be  seen 
in  tlie  layers  which  unite  the  enormous  slabs  of  granite  in  the 
Roman  walls  at  Silchester,  as  well  as  in  the  works  of  the  old 
monkish  architects  at  Heading  Abbey.  Another  beauty  of  this 
country  is  to  be  found  in  the  fields — now  of  the  deep-red  clover, 
with  its  shining  crimson  tops,  now  of  the  gay  and  brilliant  saint- 
foin  (the  holy  hay),  the  bright  pink  of  whose  flowery  spikes  gives 
to  the  ground  the  look  of  a  bed  of  roses. 

And  now  we  reach  the  gate  that  admits  us  down  a  steep  de- 
scent to  the  Rectory-house,  a  large,  substantial  mansion,  covered 
with  Banksia  roses,  and  finely  placed  upon  a  natural  terrace — a 
fertile  valley  below,  and  its  own  woods  and  orchard-trees  above. 

My  friend  the  rector,  raciest  of  men,  is  an  Oxford  divine  of  the  old 
school ;  a  ripe  scholar  ;  one  who  has  traveled  wide  and  far,  and  is 
learned  in  the  tongues,  the  manners,  and  the  literature  of  many 
nations  ;  but  who  is  himself  English  to  the  backbone  in  person, 
thought,  and  feeling.  Orthodox  is  he,  no  doubt.  Nowhere  are 
church  and  schools,  and  parish  visitings,  better  cared  for ;  but  he 
has  a  knack  of  attending  also  to  the  creature  comforts  of  all  about 
him,  of  calling  beef  and  blankets  in  aid  of  his  precepts,  which  has 
a  wonderful  effect  in  promoting  their  efficacy.  Mansion  and  man 
are  large  alike,  and  alike  overflowing  with  hospitality  and  kind- 
liness. His  original  and  poignant  conversation  is  so  joyous  and 
good-humored,  the  making  every  body  happy  is  so  evidently  his 
predominant  taste,  that  the  pungency  only  adds  to  the  flavor  of 
his  talk,  and  never  casts  a  moment's  shade  over  its  sunny  hear- 
tiness.*" 

Right  opposite  the  Rectory  terrace,  framed  like  a  picture  by 
the  rarest  and  stateliest  trees,  stands  the  object  of  my  pilgrimage. 
Grays'  Court,  a  comparatively  modern  house,  erected  among  the 
remains  of  a  vast  old  castellated  mansion,  belonging  first  to  the 
noble  family  of  Gray,  who  gave  their  name,  not  merely  to  the 
manor,  but  to  the  district ;  then  to  the  house  of  Knollys  ;  and 
latterly  to  the  Stapletons,  two  venerable  ladies  of  that  name  being 
its  present  possessors. 

All  my  life  I  had  heard  of  Grays'  Court ;  of  the  rich,  yet  wild 

*  Since  this  passage  was  written  my  kind  and  valued  friend  is  no  more. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  293 

country  in  which  it  is  placed  ;  of  the  park  so  finely  undulated, 
and  so  profusely  covered  by  magnificent  timber  ;  of  the  huge  old 
towers  which  seem  to  guard  and  sentinel  the  present  house  ;  of 
the  far  extended  walls,  whose  foundations  may  yet  be  traced,  in 
dry  seasons,  among  the  turf  of  the  lawn  ;  of  the  traditions  which 
assign  the  demolition  of  those  ancient  walls  to  the  wars  of  the 
Commonwealth  ;  and  of  the  strange  absence  of  all  documentary 
evidence  upon  the  subject. 

Another  cause  for  my  strong  desire  to  see  this  interesting  place, 
is  to  be  found  in  its  association  with  one  of  those  historical  per- 
sonages in  whom  I  have  always  taken  the  warmest  interest. 
Lord  Essex  (whose  mother  was  the  famous  Lettice  KnoUys,  who 
had  had  for  her  second  husband  another  of  Q.ueen  Elizabeth's 
favorites,  Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester),  when  confined  in 
London,  a  prey  to  the  tyranny  of  Elizabeth,  petitioned,  in  one  of 
those  eloquent  letters  to  the  Virgin  Glueen  which  will  always  re- 
main among  the  earliest  and  finest  specimens  of  English  prose,  to 
he  allowed  to  repair,  for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  "to  Master 
Comptroller's  house  at  Grays."  Ah  I  we  can  fancy,  when  look- 
ing over  this  lovely  valley,  with  its  woods,  its  verdure,  its  sweep 
of  hills,  its  feeling  of  the  near  river,  we  can  well  fancy  how  the 
poet-heart  of  the  great  Earl  must  have  longed  to  leave  the  trial, 
the  turmoil,  the  jangling,  the  treachery,  the  weary  fears,  the  bit- 
ter humiliations  of  his  London  captivity,  and  to  taste  once  more 
the  sweet  air,  the  pleasant  sights,  the  calmness  and  the  quiet  of 
the  country.  Hope  and  comfort  must  have  come  with  the 
thought.  One  of  the  prettiest  pictures  that  I  know  is  an  extract 
from  a  cotemporary  letter,  in  the  first  volume  of  Mr.  Craik's  most 
interesting  book,  "  The  Romance  of  the  Peerage,"  telling  of  the 
Earl  and  Countess,  during  one  of  the  daily  visits  that  she  was  at 
one  time  permitted  to  pay  him  when  he  was  a  prisoner  in  Essex 
House,  walking  together  in  the  garden,  "  now  he,  now  she,  read- 
ing one  to  the  other."  The  whole  taste  and  feeling  of  the  man, 
the  daily  habit  of  his  life,  is  shown  in  this  little  circumstance. 
And  this  is  the  brave  soldier  who,  when  examined  before  tlie 
Privy  Council,  a  council  composed  of  open  enemies  and  treacher- 
ous friends,  had  been  kept  nearly  all  day  kneeling  at  the  bottom 
of  the  table.  Tyranny  drove  him  into  madness,  and  then  ex- 
acted the  full  penalty  of  the  wild  acts  which  that  madness 
prompted.     But  Essex  wa.«  a  man  in  advance  of  his  age  ;  the 


2i>4  RECOLLKOTIONS    OF 

companion  as  woU  as  the  patron  of  poets  :  tlie  protector  of  Papist 
ami  rurituii  ;  the  I'eurless  assertor  oi"  liherty  oi"  conscience!  He 
ilcscrvcil  a  truer  liieud  than  liacou,  a  more  merciful  judge  than 
Elizabeth. 

To  tiie  house  of  KnoUys  belongs  another  interesting  association, 
that  strangest  of  genealogical  romances,  the  great  case  of  the 
i3anbury  peerage.  The  cause  was  decided  (if  decided  it  can  be 
called  even  now)  by  evidence  found  in  the  parish  register  of 
Rotherfield  Grays. 

The  place  has  yet  another  attraction  in  its  difficulty  of  access  ; 
the  excellent  ladies  of  the  Court  admitting  few  beyond  their  own 
immediate  connections  and  nearest  friends.  One  class,  to  be 
sure,  finds  its  way  thei'e  as  if  by  instinct — the  poor,  who,  as  the 
birds  of  the  air  detect  the  grain  under  the  surface  in  the  newly- 
sown  ground,  are  sure  to  find  out  the  soil  where  charity  lies  ger- 
minating. Few  excepting  these  constant  visitors  are  admitted. 
But,  beside  the  powerful  introduction  of  our  mutual  friend  the 
rector,  a  nephew  of  theirs,  and  his  most  sweet  and  interesting 
wife,  had  for  some  time  inhabited  the  house  which  had  been  the 
home  of  my  own  youth,  so  that  my  name  was  not  strange  to 
them  ;  and  they  had  the  kindness  to  allow  me  to  walk  over  their 
beautiful  grounds  and  gardens,  to  see  their  charming  Swiss  dairy, 
with  its  marbles  and  its  china,  and,  above  all,  to  satisfy  my  curi- 
osity by  looking  over  the  towers  which  still  remain  of  the  old 
castle — piles  whose  prodigious  thickness  of  wall  and  distance 
from  each  other  give  token  of  the  immense  extent  and  importance 
of  the  place.  It  is  said  to  have  been  built  round  two  courts. 
Alnwick  and  Windsor  rose  to  my  thoughts  as  I  contemplated 
these  gigantic  remains,  and  calculated  the  space  that  the  original 
edifice  must  have  covered.  One  of  the  old  buildings  is  still  occu- 
pied by  the  well  of  the  castle,  a  well  three  hundred  feet  deep, 
which  supplies  the  family  with  water.  It  will  give  some  idea 
of  the  scale  of  the  great  mansion  to  say  that  the  wheel  by  which 
the  water  is  raised  is  twenty-five  feet  in  diameter.  Two  donkeys 
are  employed  in  the  operation.  One  donkey  suffices  for  the  par- 
allel but  much  smaller  well  at  Carisbrook,  where  the  animal  is 
so  accustomed  to  be  put  in  for  the  mere  purpose  of  exhibiting  the 
way  in  which  the  water  is  raised  to  the  visitors  who  go  to  look  at 
the  poor  king's  last  prison,  that  he  just  makes  the  one  turn  ne- 
cessary to  show  the  working  of  the  machine,  and  then  stops  of  his 


A    LITERARY    LIFI:;.  295 

own  accord.  The  donkeys  at  Grays,  kept  for  use  and  not  for  show, 
have  not  had  a  similar  opportunity  of  displaying  their  sagacity. 

One  can  not  look  at  the  place  without  a  feeling  of  adaptedness. 
It  is  the  very  spot  for  a  stronghold  of  the  cavaliers ;  a  spot  where 
Lovelace  and  Montrose  might  each  have  fought  and  each  have 
sung,  defending  it  to  the  last  loaf  of  bread  and  the  last  charge  of 
powder,  and  yielding  only  to  the  irresistible  force  of  Cromwell's 
cannonade. 

Much  interest  is  imparted  to  the  lays  of  these  cavalier  poets, 
when  we  consider  the  circumstances  under  which  they  were 
written.  They  were  no  carpet  knights,  pouring  forth  effusions 
of  chivalrous  loyalty  in  the  security  of  a  Court,  or  to  amuse  the 
leisure  of  a  mild  and  temporary  captivity  ;  but  for  that  very  loy- 
alty which  they  boasted  so  loudly,  Montrose  lay  under  sentence 
of  death,  and  Richard  Lovelace  was  pining  in  tho  crowded  and 
lothsome  prison  called  the  Gratehouse  at  Westminster.  Per- 
haps the  fate  of  the  great  Marquis  was  the  happier  of  the  two. 
He  fell  with  the  fame  and  consolations  of  a  martyr,  as  his  mas- 
ter had  fallen  before  him  ;  while  his  brother  poet  was  indeed  re- 
leased by  the  ascendant  party  after  the  death  of  the  King,  when 
the  royalists  were  so  scattered  and  broken  as  to  be  no  longer 
formidable  ;  but  when  at  last  set  free  he  was  penniless  ;  the  lady 
of  his  love  (Lucy  Sacheverel),  hearing  that  he  had  died  of  his 
wounds  at  Dunkirk,  was  married  to  another  person  ;  and  op- 
pressed with  want  and  misery,  he  fell  into  a  consumption.  Wood 
relates  that  "  he  became  very  poor  in  body  and  purse,  was  the 
object  of  charity,  went  in  ragged  clothes,  and  mostly  lodged  in 
obscure  and  dirty  places,"  in  one  of  which,  situated  in  some  alley 
near  Shoe  Lane,  he  died  in  1658.  What  a  reverse  for  one  whose 
gallant  bearing  and  splendid  person  seem  to  have  corresponded 
so  entirely  with  the  noble  and  chivalrous  spirit  of  his  poetry  ! 
Faults  and  virtues,  Richard  Lovelace,  as  a  man  and  as  a  writer, 
may  be  taken  as  an  impersonation  of  the  cavalier  of  the  civil 
wars,  with  much  to  charm  the  reader,  and  still  more  to  captivate 
the  fair. 

TO  ALTHEA,  FROM   PRISON. 

When  love,  witli  unconfindd  wings, 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Altlica  brings 

To  whi.sper  at  my  grates  ; 


206  KECOL LECTIONS    OF 

When  I  lie  tangled  in  licr  hair, 
And  fottcr'd  with  her  eye, 

The  birds  tliat  wanton  in  the  air, 
Know  no  snch  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round, 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  crown'd. 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames ; 
When  thirsty  grief  iu  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes,  that  tipple  in  the  deep, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  linnet-like  confined,  I 

With  shriller  note  shall  sing 
The  mercy,  sweetness,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  King ; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
The  enlarged  winds  that  curl  the  flood 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage ; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone  that  soar  above 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


TO   LUCASTA,  ON   GOING    TO   THE   WARS. 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  choose, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield, 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you,  too,  shall  adore : 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honor  more. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  297 


ON  LELY'S  PORTRAIT  OF  CHARLES  THE  FIRST. 

See  what  an  humble  bravery  doth  shine, 

And  grief  triumphant  breaking  through  each  line, 

How  it  commands  the  face  !     So  sweet  a  scorn 

Never  did  happy  miserj'  adorn  ! 

So  sacred  a  contempt  that  others  show 

To  this  (o'  the  height  of  all  the  wheel)  below ; 

That  mightiest  monarchs  by  this  shaded  book 

May  copy  out  their  proudest,  richest  look. 

An  elegant  and  accurate  critic,  Sir  Egerton  Brydges,  has 
pointed  out  a  singular  coincidence  between  an  illustration  em- 
ployed by  Lovelace  and  a  line  for  which  Lord  Byron  has  been,  as 
it  seems  to  me,  unjustly  censured  in  the  "  Bride  of  Abydos."  The 
noble  poet  says  of  his  heroine — 

"  The  mind,  the  musu:  breathing  from  her  face ;" 

and  he  vindicated  the  expression  on  the  obvious  ground  of  its 
clearness  and  truth.  Lovelace,  in  a  Song  of  Orpheus,  lamenting 
the  death  of  his  wife,  uses  the  same  words  in  nearly  the  same 
sense.  Lord  Byron  had  probably  never  seen  the  poem,  or,  if  he 
had,  the  illustration  had  perhaps  remained  in  his  mind  to  be  un- 
consciously reproduced  by  that  strange  process  of  amalgamation 
which  so  often  combines  memory  with  invention.  These  are  the 
lines  sung  by  Orpheus,  who  works  out  the  idea  too  far  : — 

Oh,  could  you  view  the  melody 

Of  every  grace, 

And  music  of  her  face, 
You'd  drop  a  tear 
Seeing  more  harmony 
In  her  bright  eye 

Than  now  you  hear. 

The  poem  of  "  Loyalty  Confined"  is  supposed  to  have  been 
written  by  Sir  Roger  L'Estrange,  while  imprisoned  on  account 
of  his  adherence  to  Charles  the  First.  On  a  first  reading,  these 
terse  and  vigorous  stanzas  seem  too  much  like  a  paraphrase  pf 
Lovelace's  fine  address  "  To  Althea  from  Prison  ;"  but  there  is 
60  much  that  is  original,  both  in  thought  and  expression,  that  we 
can  not  but  admit  that  the  apparent  imitation  is  the  result  of  sim- 


2J)S  KE  COLLECT  IONS    OF 

ihirity  of  sentiment  in  a  similar  situation.  These  imprisoned 
cavaliers  think  and  feel  alike,  and  must  needs  speak  the  same 
language. 

Beat  on,  proud  billows.     Boreas,  blow ; 

Swell-curled  waves,  higli  as  Jove's  roof; 
Vnur  incivility  doth  show 

That  innocence  is  tempest-proof; 
Though  truly  heroes  frown,  my  thoughts  are  calm  ; 
Then  strike  affliction,  for  my  wounds  are  balm. 

That  which  the  world  miscalls  a  jail, 

A  private  closet  is  to  me ; 
While  a  good  conscience  is  my  bail, 

And  innocence  my  liberty ; 
Locks,  bars,  and  solitude  together  met 
Make  nie  no  prisoner,  but  an  anchoret. 

I,  while  I  wished  to  be  retired. 

Into  this  private  room  was  turned. 
As  if  their  wisdoms  had  conspired 

The  Salamander  should  be  burned ; 
Or  like  those  sophists,  that  would  drown  a  fish, 
Even  constrained  to  suflTer  what  I  wish. 

The  cynic  loves  his  poverty, 

The  pelican  her  wilderness, 
And  'tis  the  Indian's  pride  to  be 

Naked  on  frozen  Caucasus  : 
Contentment  can  not  smart.    Stoics  we  see 
Make  torments  easy  to  their  apathy. 

These  manacles  upon  my  arm 

I,  as  my  mistress'  favors,  wear ; 
And  for  to  keep  my  ankles  warm 

I  have  some  iron  shackles  there  ; 
These  walls  are  but  my  garrison  ;  this  cell. 
Which  men  call  jail,  doth  prove  my  citadel. 

I'm  in  the  cabinet  locked  up 

Like  some  high-priced  Marguerite ; 
Or,  like  the  Great  Mogul  or  Pope, 

Am  cloistered  up  from  public  sight. 
Retiredness  is  a  piece  of  majestj'. 
And  thus,  proud  Sultan,  I'm  as  great  as  thee. 

Here  sin,  for  want  of  food,  must  starve 
Where  tempting  objects  arc  not  seen  ; 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  299 

And  these  strong  walls  do  only  serve 
To  keep  vice  out,  and  keep  me  in  ; 
Malice  of  late's  grown  charitable,  sure  ; 
I'm  not  committed,  but  am  kept  secure. 

So  he  that  struck  at  Jason's  life, 

Thinking  to  have  made  his  purpose  sure, 
By  a  malicious  friendly  knife 

Did  only  wound  him  to  a  cure. 
Malice,  I  see,  wants  wit ;  for  what  is  meant 
Mischief,  ofttimes  proves  favor  by  the  event. 

When  once  my  Prince  affliction  hath, 

Prosperity  doth  treason  seem ; 
And  to  make  smooth  so  rough  a  path. 

Sweet  patience  I  can  learn  from  him. 
Now  not  to  suffer  shows  no  loyal  heart ; 
When  kings  want  ease,  subjects  must  bear  a  part. 

What  though  I  can  not  see  my  King, 

Neither  in  person  nor  in  coin, 
Yet  contemplation  is  a  thing 

That  renders  what  I  have  not,  mine. 
My  King  from  me  what  adamant  can  part. 
Whom  I  do  wear  engraven  on  my  heart  1 

Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale 

A  prisoner-like  cooped  in  a  cage ; 
How  she  doth  chant  her  morbid  tale 

In  that  her  narrow  hermitage "? 
Even  then  her  charming  melody  doth  prove 
That  all  her  bars  are  trees,  her  cage  a  grove. 

I  am  that  bird  whom  they  contrive 

Thus  to  deprive  of  liberty ; 
But  though  they  do  my  corpse  confine, 

Yet,  maugre  hate,  my  soul  is  free. 
And  though  immured,  yet  can  I  chirp  and  sing. 
Disgrace  to  rebels,  glory  to  my  King. 

My  soul  is  free  as  ambient  air. 

Although  my  baser  part's  immew'd  ; 
While  loyal  thoughts  do  still  repair 

To  accompany  my  solitude. 
Although  rebellion  do  my  body  bind. 
My  King  alone  can  captivate  my  mind. 

The  following  lines  were  written  by  the  Marquis  of  Montrose 
upon  the  execution  of  Charles  the  First.     He  shut  himself  up  for 


300  KECOLLKCTIONS    OF 

lliroo  (lays,  and  whou  Dr.  Wishart,  his  chaplain,  and  the  elegant 
liistoiiau  of  liis  wars,  was  admitted  to  him,  he  found  these  verses, 
wliich  probably  were  intended  as  a  sort  of  vow,  on  his  table. 
Wo  all  know  how  that  vow  was  redeemed. 

Great,  good,  and  just !  could  I  but  rate 

My  grief  to  thy  too  rigid  flitc, 

I'd  weep  the  world  to  such  a  strain 

As  it  should  deluge  once  again ; 

But  since  thy  loud-tongued  blood  demands  supplies 

More  from  Briarcus'  hands  than  Argus'  eyes, 

I'll  sing  thy  obsequies  with  trumpet  sounds. 

And  write  thy  epitaph  with  blood  and  wounds. 

LOVE  VERSES,  BY  THE  MARQUIS  OF  MONTROSE. 

Sometimes  the  jargon  of  the  difierent  governments  of  the  day, 
and  sometimes  the  technical  phrases  of  warfare,  are  made  strange 
use  of  in  these  verses ;  yet  some  of  the  lines  are  so  noble,  and 
many  so  original,  that  w^e  forgive  this  soldierly  mode  of  wooing  in 
favor  of  its  frankness.     It  is  to  be  presumed  the  lady  did  the  same. 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 

This  noble  world  of  thee. 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

Than  purest  monarchy. 
For  if  confusion  have  a  part, 

Which  virtuous  souls  abhor. 
And  hold  a  synod  in  thy  heart, 

I'll  never  love  thee  more. 

Like  Alexander  I  will  reign. 

And  I  will  reign  alone ; 
My  thoughts  shall  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much. 

Or  his  desert's  too  small. 
That  puts  it  not  unto  the  touch 

To  win  or  lose  it  all. 

But  I  must  rule  and  govern  still. 

And  always  give  the  law. 
And  have  each  subject  at  my  will. 

And  all  to  stand  in  awe. 
But  'gainst  my  battery  if  I  find 

Thou  shuun'st  the  prize  to  bore. 
Or  that  thou  sett'st  me  up  a  blind, 

I'll  never  love  thee  more. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  301 

Or  in  the  empire  of  thy  heart, 

Where  I  would  solely  be, 
Another  do  pretend  a  part, 

And  dares  to  vie  with  me; 
Or  if  committees  thou  erect, 

And  goest  on  such  a  score, 
I'll  sing  and  laugh  at  thy  neglect, 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

But  if  thou  wilt  be  constant  then. 

And  faithful  of  thy  word, 
I'll  make  thee  glorious  by  my  pen. 

And  famous  by  my  sword. 
I'll  serve  thee  in  such  noble  ways 

Was  never  heard  before, 
I'll  crown  and  deck  thee  all  with  bays, 

And  love  thee  evermore. 

Could  it  be  in  woman  to  resist  such  promises  from  such  a  man  ? 


PART  SECOND. 

My  dear  and  only  love,  take  heed 

Lest  thou  thyself  expose. 
And  let  all  longing  lovers  feed 

Upon  such  looks  as  those ; 
A  marble  wall,  then,  build  about, 

Beset,  without  a  door. 
But,  if  thou  let  thy  heart  fly  out, 

I'll  never  love  thee  more. 

Let  not  their  oaths,  like  volleys  shot, 

Make  any  breach  at  all, 
Nor  smoothness  of  their  language  plot 

Which  way  to  scale  the  wall; 
Nor  balls  of  wildfire  love  consume 

The  shrine  which  I  adore. 
For  if  such  smoke  about  thee  fume, 

I'll  never  love  thee  more. 

I  think  thy  virtues  be  too  strong 

To  suffer  by  surprise, 
Which  victuald  by  my  love  so  long, 

The  siege  at  length  must  rise. 
And  leave  thee  ruled  in  that  healtli 

And  state  thou  wast  before ; 
But  if  thou  turn  a  Commonwealth, 

I'll  never  love  thee  more. 


oU2  K  K  C  O  L  L  K  C  T  1  O  N  S    U  F 

But  if  by  fiaucl  or  by  consent 

Thy  heart  to  ruin  come, 
I'll  siumd  no  trumpet  as  I  wont, 

Nor  march  by  beat  of  drum  ; 
But  hold  my  arms  like  ensigns  up, 

Thy  falsehood  to  deplore, 
And  bitterly  will  sigh  and  weep, 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

I'll  do  with  thee  as  Nero  did 

When  Rome  was  set  on  fire 
Not  only  all  relief  forbid, 

But  to  a  hill  retire ; 
And  scorn  to  shed  a  tear  to  see 

Thy  spirit  grown  so  poor, 
And  smiling  sing,  until  I  die, — 

I'll  never  love  thee  more. 

Yet  for  the  love  I  bare  thee  once, 

Lest  that  thy  name  should  die, 
A  monument  of  marble  stone 

The  truth  shall  testify. 
That  every  pilgrim  passing  by 

May  pity  and  deplore 
My  case,  and  read  the  reason  why 

I  can  love  thee  no  more. 

The  golden  laws  of  love  shall  be 

Upon  this  pillar  hung, 
A  simple  heart,  a  single  eye, 

A  true  and  constant  tongue. 
Let  no  man  for  more  love  pretend 

Than  he  has  hearts  in  store ; 
True  love  begun  shall  never  end, 

Love  one,  and  love  no  more. 


My  heart  shall  with  the  sun  be  fix'd 

In  constancy  most  strange  ; 
And  thine  shall  with  the  moon  be  mix'd, 

Delighting  still  in  change. 
Thy  beauty  shined  at  first  most  bright, 

And  woe  is  me  therefore ! 
That  ever  I  found  thy  love  so  light, 

I  could  love  thee  no  more. 

Verses  written  by  the  Marquis  of  Montrose  with  the  point  of  a 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  803 

diamond  upon  the  glass  window  of  his  prison,  after  receiving  his 
sentence  : 

Let  them  bestow  on  every  airth  a  limb ; 
Then  open  all  my  veins  that  I  may  swim 
To  Thee,  my  Maker,  in  that  crimson  lake: 
Then  place  my  parboil'd  head  upon  a  stake ; 
Scatter  my  ashes ;  strew  them  in  the  air : — 
Lord !  since  Thou  know'st  where  all  those  atoms  are, 
I'm  hopeful  Thou'lt  recover  once  my  dust, 
And  confident  Thou'lt  raise  me  with  the  Just. 

They  who  would  follow  the  great  Marquis  to  the  last  should 
read  the  fine  ballad  called  "  The  Execution  of  Montrose,"  in 
Professor  Aytoun's  charming  volume,  "  The  Lays  of  the  Scottish 
Cavaliers." 


804  UKCOLLECTIONS    01-' 


XXIV. 


POETUY  THAT  POETS  LOVE. 

SALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR LEIGH    HUNT PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY 

JOHN    KEATS. 

To  no  one  can  the  words  that  I  have  placed  at  the  head  of 
this  paper  apply  more  perfectly  than  to  Mr.  Landor.  No  poetry 
was  ever  dearer  to  poets  than  his.  Nearly  fifty  years  ago,  we 
find  Southey  writing  of  and  to  the  author  of  "  Gebir,"  with  a 
respectful  admiration  seldom  felt  by  one  young  man  for  another  ; 
and,  from  that  hour  to  the  present,  all  whom  he  would  himself  most 
wish  to  please  have  showered  upon  him  praises  that  can  not  die. 
The  difficulty  in  selecting  from  his  works  is  the  abundance  ;  but 
I  prefer  the  Hellenics,  that  charming  volume,  because  few,  very 
few,  have  given  such  present  life  to  classical  subjects.  I  begin 
with  the  Preface,  so  full  of  grace  and  modesty. 

"  It  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  ladies  and  gentlemen  will 
leave,  on  a  sudden,  their  daily  promenade,  skirted  by  Turks,  and 
shepherds,  and  knights,  and  plumes,  and  palfreys,  of  the  finest 
Tunbridge  manufacture,  to  look  at  these  rude  frescoes,  delineated 
on  an  old  wall,  high  up  and  sadly  weak  in  coloring.  As  in  duty 
bound,  we  can  wait.  The  reader  (if  there  should  be  one)  will 
remember  that  Sculpture  and  Pa-inting  have  never  ceased  to 
be  occupied  with  the  scenes  and  figures  which  we  venture  once 
more  to  introduce  in  poetry,  it  being  our  belief  that  what  is  be- 
coming in  two  of  the  fine  arts,  is  not  quite  unbecoming  in  a  third, 
the  one  which,  indeed,  gave  birth  to  them." 

And  now  comes  the  very  first  story ;  with  its  conclusion  that 
goes  straight  to  the  heart. 

THRASYMEDES  AND  EUNOE- 

Wlio  will  away  to  Athens  with  me  1    Who 

Loves  choral  songs  and  maidens  crowned  with  flowers 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  305 

Unenvious  1     Mount  the  pinnace  ;  hoist  the  sail. 
I  promise  ye,  as  many  as  are  here, 
Ye  shall  not,  while  ye  tarry  with  me,  taste 
From  unrinsed  barrel  the  diluted  wine 
Of  a  low  vineyard,  or  a  plant  ill-pruned. 
But  such  as  anciently  the  ^gean  isles 
Poured  in  libation  at  their  solemn  feasts  ; 
And  the  same  goblets  shall  ye  grasp,  eraboss'd 
AVith  no  vile  figures  of  loose  languid  boors, 
But  such  as  gods  have  lived  with  and  have  led. 

The  sea  smiles  bright  before  us.     What  white  sail 
Plays  yonder  1     What  pursues  it  1     Like  two  hawks 
Away  they  fly.     Let  us  away  in  time 
To  overtake  them.     Are  they  menaces 
We  hear  7     And  shall  the  strong  repulse  the  weak, 
Enraged  at  her  defender  1     Hippias  ! 
Art  thou  the  mani     'Twas  Hippias.     He  had  found 
His  sister  borne  from  the  Cecropion  port 
By  Thrasymedes.     And  reluctantly  1 
Ask,  ask  the  maiden ;   I  have  no  reply. 

"  Brother !     0  brother  Hippias !     Oh,  if  love. 
If  pity  ever  touched  thy  breast,  forbear  ! 
Strike  not  the  brave,  the  gentle,  the  beloved. 
My  Thrasj'medes,  with  his  cloak  alone, 
Protecting  his  own  head  and  mine  from  harm." 
"  Didst  thou  not  once  before,"  cried  Hippias, 
Regardless  of  his  sister,  hoarse  with  wrath 
At  Thrasymedes,  "  didst  thou  not,  dog-eyed, 
Dare  as  she  walked  up  to  the  Parthenon, 
On  the  most  holy  of  all  holy  days, 
In  sight  of  all  the  city,  dare  to  kiss 
Her  maiden  cheek'?" 

"  Ay,  before  all  the  gods, 
Ay,  before  Pallas,  before  Artemis, 
Ay,  before  Aphrodite,  before  Here, 
I  dared;    and  dare  again.     Arise,  my  spouse  ! 
Arise !   and  let  my  lips  quaff  purity 
From  thy  fair  open  brow." 

The  sword  was  up. 
And  yet  he  kissed  her  twice.     Some  god  withheld 
The  arm  of  Hippias ;   liis  proud  blood  seethed  slower 
And  smote  his  breast  less  angrily ;   he  laid 
His  hand  on  the  white  shoulder,  and  spoke  thus  : 
"  Ye  must  return  with  me.     A  second  time 
Offended,  w-ill  our  sire  Peisistratos 


306  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

I'iinlon  till'  alVmiit  7     Thou  shoulilst  havu  asked  thyself 

Tliat  <nu'sii(>ii  ore  the  sail  lirst  flapp'd  the  mast." 

'•  Already  thou  liast  taken  life  from  mo  ; 

Put  u()  thy  sword,"  said  the  sad  youth,  his  cj-es 

Sparkling;  but  whether  love,  or  rage,  or  grief 

They  sparkled  with,  the  gods  alone  could  see. 

Peira>eus  they  re-entered,  and  their  ship 

Drove  up  the  little  waves  against  the  quay. 

Whence  was  thrown  out  a  rope  from  one  .above, 

And  Hippias  caught  it.     From  the  virgin's  waist 

Her  lover  dropped  his  arm,  and  blushed  to  think 

He  bad  retained  it  there,  in  sight  of  rude 

Irreverent  men  ;  he  led  her  forth  nor  spake. 

Hippias  walked  silent  too,  until  they  reached 

The  mansion  of  Peisistratos,  her  sire. 

Serenely  in  his  sternness  did  the  prince 

Look  on  them  both  awhile :  they  saw  not  him, 

For  both  had  cast  their  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

"  Arc  these  the  pirates  thou  hast  taken,  son  V 

Said  he.     "  Worse,  father !   worse  than  pirates  they 

Who  thus  abuse  thy  patience,  thus  abuse 

Thy  pardon,  thus  abuse  the  holy  rites 

Twice  over." 

"  Well  hast  thou  performed  thy  duty," 
Firmly  and  gravely  said  Peisistratos. 
"  Nothing,  then,  rash  young  man !  could  turn  thy  heart 
From  Eunoe,  my  daughter  ]" 

'•■  Nothing,  sir. 
Shall  ever  turn  it.    I  can  die  but  once 
And  love  but  once.     0,  Euncie  !  farewell !" 
"  Nay,  she  shall  see  what  thou  canst  bear  for  her." 
"  0  father !     Shut  me  in  my  chamber,  shut  me 
In  my  poor  mother's  tomb,  dead  or  alive, 
But  never  let  me  see  what  he  can  bear; 
I  know  how  much  that  is  when  borne  for  me." 
'•Not  yet:  come  on.     And  lag  not  thou  behind, 
Pirate  of  virgin  and  of  princely  hearts  ! 
Before  the  people,  and  before  the  goddess. 
Thou  hadst  evinced  the  madness  of  thy  passion. 
And  now  wouldst  bear  from  home  and  plenteousness 
To  poverty  and  exile,  this,  my  child." 
Then  shuddered  Thrasymedes,  and  exclaimed, 
"  I  see  my  crime,  I  saw  it  not  before. 
The  daughter  of  Peisistratos  was  born 
Neither  for  exile  nor  for  poverty, 
Ah  !  not  for  me !"    He  would  have  wept,  but  one 
Might  see  him.  and  weep  worse.     The  prince,  unmoved. 


A     LITERARY    LIFE,  307 

Strode  ou,  and  said,  "  To-morrow  shall  the  people 
All  who  beheld  thy  trespasses,  behold 
The  justice  of  Pelsistratos,  the  love 
He  bears  his  daughter,  and  the  reverence 
In  which  he  holds  the  highest  law  of  God." 
He  spake;  and  on  the  mon'ow  they  were  one. 

Did  not  Mr.  Lander  write  this  scene  of  Orestes  one  fine  June 
morning,  seated  on  a  garden-roller  in  the  court  before  Mr.  Kenyon's 
house  in  London  ?  fitting  home  for  such  an  inspiration  I  And  is 
not  that  the  way  that  such  scenes  are  written  ?  not  sitting  down 
with  malice  prepense  to  compose  poetry,  but  letting  it  come  when 
it  will  and  how  it  will,  and  striking  it  off"  at  a  heat. 

THE  DEATH  OF  CLYTEMNESTRA. 

ORESTES    AND   ELECTRA. 

Eledra.    Pass  on,  my  brother !  she  awaits  the  wretch, 
Dishonorer,  dispoiler,  murderer — 
None  other  name  shall  name  him — she  awaits 
As  would  a  lover — 

Heavenly  Gods !  what  poison 
O'erflows  my  lips  ! 

Adultress !  husband-slayer ! 
Strike  her,  the  tigress ! 

Think  upon  our  father — 
Give  the  sword  scope — think  what  a  man  was  he. 
How  fond  of  her!  how  kind  to  all  about, 
That  he  might  gladden  and  teach  us — how  proud 
Of  thee,  Orestes !  tossing  thee  above 
His  joyous  head,  and  calling  thee  his  cro\\Ti. 
Ah  I  boys  remember  not  what  melts  our  hearts 
And  marks  them  evermore! 

Bite  not  thy  lip. 
Nor  tramp,  as  an  unsteady  colt,  the  ground. 
Nor  stare  against  the  wall,  but  think  again 
How  better  than  all  fathers  was  our  father. 
Go. 

Orestes.    Loose  me  then !  for  this  white  hand,  Electra, 
flath  fastened  upon  mine  with  fiercer  grasp 
Than  I  can  grasp  the  sword. 

Electra.  Go,  sweet  Orestes, 

1  knew  not  I  was  holding  thee — Avenge  him ! 

{Alone.)     How  he  sprang  from  me ! 

Sure  he  now  hath  reached 
The  room  before  the  bath  ! 

The  bath-door  creaks  1 
It  hath  creaked  thus  since  he — since  thou,  0  father  ! 


SOS  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Ever  siiico  tliou  tlidst  loosen  its  strong  valves, 
Either  with  nil  thy  ilying  weight,  or  strength 
Agonized  with  her  stubs — 

"What  plunge  was  that? 
Ah  !  me ! 

What  groans  are  those  1 

Orcs/cs  {returning).  They  sound  through  hell 

Rejoicing  the  Eumenides. 

She  slew 
Our  father :  she  made  thee  the  scorn  of  slaves  : 
Me  (son  of  him  who  ruled  this  land  and  more) 
She  made  an  outcast — 

Would  I  had  been  so 
Forever !  ere  such  vengeance — 

Eledra.  Oh  that  Zeus 

Had  let  thy  arm  fall  sooner  at  thy  side 
Without  those  drops  !  list !  they  are  audible — 
For  they  are  many — from  the  sword's  point  falling 
And  down  from  the  mid  blade  ! 

Too  rash  Orestes ! 
Couldst  thou  not  then  have  spared  our  wretched  mother  ? 

Orestes.     The  gods  could  not. 

Eledra.  She  was  not  theirs,  Orestes! 

Orestes.     And  didst  not  thou — 

Eledra.  'Twas  I !  'twas  I  who  did  it ! 

Of  our  unhappy  house  the  most  unhappy  ! 
Under  this  roof,  by  every  God  accurst, 
There  is  no  grief,  there  is  no  guilt,  but  mine. 

Orestes.     Electra  !  no  ! 

'Tis  now  my  time  to  suffer — 
Mine  be,  with  all  its  pangs,  the  righteous  deed  ! 

What  a  picture  is  that  of  Agamemnon  and  his  boy, 

"  Tossing  thee  above 
His  joyous  head  and  calling  thee  his  crown  !" 

Long  may  Mr.  Lander  conceive  such  pictures,  and  write  such 
scenes  ! 

The  days  are  happily  past  when  the  paltry  epithet  of  "  Cock- 
ney Poets"  could  be  bestowed  upon  Keats  and  Leigh  Hunt:  the 
world  has  outlived  them.  People  would  as  soon  think  of  apply- 
ing such  a  word  to  Dr.  Johnson.  Happily,  too,  one  of  the  de- 
lightful writers  who  were  the  objects  of  these  unworthy  attacks 
has  outlived  them  also  ;  has  lived  to  attain  a  popularity  of  the 
most  genial  kind,  and  to  difiuse,  through  a  thousand  pleasant 


A    LITEKARY    LIFE.  309 

channels,  many  of  the  finest  parts  of  our  finest  writers.  He  has 
done  good  service  to  literature  in  another  way,  by  enriching  our 
language  with  some  of  the  very  best  translations  since  Cowley. 
Who  ever  thought  to  see  Tasso's  famous  passage  in  the  "  Amyn- 
tas"  so  rendered  ? 

ODE   TO  THE   GOLDEN   AGE. 

0  lovely  age  of  gold  ! 

Not  that  the  rivers  rolled 

With  milk,  or  that  the  woods  wept  honey-dew ; 

Not  that  the  reedy  ground 

Produced  without  a  wound, 

Or  the  mild  serpent  had  no  tooth  that  slew ; 

Not  that  a  cloudless  blue 

Forever  was  in  sight ; 

Or  that  the  heaven  which  burns. 

And  now  is  cold  by  turns. 

Looked  out  in  glad  and  everlasting  light ; 

No,  nor  that  even  the  insolent  ships  from  far 

Brought  war  to  no  new  lands,  nor  riches  worse  than  war. 

Who,  again,  ever  hoped  to  see  such  an  English  version  of  one 
of  Petrarch's  most  characteristic  poems,  conceits  and  all  ? 

PETRARCH'S  CONTEMPLATIONS  OF  DEATH  IN  THE  BOWER  OF 

LAURA. 

Clear,  fresh,  and  dulcet  streams, 

Which  the  fair  shape  who  seems 

To  me  sole  woman,  haunted  at  noontide ; 

Fair  bough,  so  gently  lit, 

(I  sigh  to  think  of  it) 

Which  lent  a  pillar  to  her  lovely  side ; 

And  turf  and  flowers  bright-eyed. 

O'er  which  her  folded  gown 

Flowed  like  an  angel's  down; 

And  you,  0  holy  air  and  hushed, 

Where  first  my  heart  at  her  sweet  glances  gushed. 

Give  ear,  give  ear,  with  one  consenting. 

To  my  last  words,  my  last,  and  my  lamenting. 

If  'tis  my  fate  below 

And  heaven  will  liavo  it  so, 

That  love  must  close  th(!se  dying  eyes  in  tears. 

May  my  poor  dust  be  laid 

In  middle  of  your  shade. 


110  RECOLLECTION'S     OF 

\VliiI»>  my  soul,  naked,  mounts  to  its  own  spheres. 

The  thouftht  woultl  eahn  my  fears 

Wlion  taking,  out  of  breatii, 

Tiie  iloubtful  step  of  death  ; 

For  never  eould  my  sjjirit  tind 

A  stiller  port  after  the  stormy  wind; 

Nor  in  more  calm  abstracted  borne 

Slip  from  my  traveled  flesh,  and  from  my  bones  outworn. 

Perliaps,  some  future  hour, 

To  her  accustomed  bower 

Might  come  the  untamed,  and  yet  gentle  she ; 

And  where  she  saw  me  first, 

Might  turn  with  eyes  athirst 

And  kinder  joy  to  look  again  for  me ; 

Then,  oh  the  charity  ! 

Seeing  amidst  the  stones 

The  earth  that  held  my  bones, 

A  sigh  for  very  love  at  last 

Might  ask  of  heaven  to  pardon  me  the  past; 

And  heaven  itself  could  not  say  nay, 

As  with  her  gentle  vail  she  wiped  the  tears  away. 

How  well  I  call  to  mind, 

When  from  those  boughs  the  wind 

Shook  down  upon  her  bosom  flower  on  flower ; 

And  there  she  sat  meek-eyed, 

In  midst  of  all  that  pride. 

Sprinkled  and  blushing  through  an  amorous  shower. 

Some  to  her  hair  paid  dower, 

And  seemed  to  dress  the  curls 

Queenlike  with  gold  and  pearls ; 

Some  snowing  on  her  drapery  stopped, 

Some  on  the  earth,  some  on  the  water  dropped ; 

While  others,  fluttering  from  above. 

Seemed  wheeling  round  in  pomp  and  saying,  "Here  reigns  love. 

How  often  then  I  said, 

Inward,  and  filled  with  dread, 

"  Doubtless  this  creature  came  from  paradise !" 

For  at  her  look  the  while. 

Her  voice,  and  her  sweet  smile 

And  heavenly  air,  truth  parted  from  mine  eyes ; 

So  that,  with  long-drawn  sighs, 

I  said,  as  far  from  men, 

"  How  came  I  here,  and  when  ?"' 

I  had  forgotten  ;  and  alas ! 

Fancied  myself  in  heaven,  not  where  I  was; 

And  from  that  time  till  this,  I  bear 

Such  love  for  the  green  bower,  I  can  not  rest  elsewhere. 


A     LITERARY     LIFE.  811 

In  justice  to  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  I  add  to  these  fine  translations, 
of  which  every  lover  of  Italian  literature  vi^ill  perceive  the  merit, 
some  extracts  from  his  original  poems,  which  need  no  previous 
preparation  in  the  reader.  Except  Chaucer  himself,  no  painter 
of  processions  has  excelled  the  entrance  of  Paulo  to  Ravenna,  in 
the  story  of  Rimini. 

'Tis  morn,  and  never  did  a  lovelier  day 

Salute  Ravenna  from  its  leafy  bay ; 

For  a  warm  eve  and  gentle  rains  at  night 

Have  left  a  sparkling  welcome  for  the  light; 

And  April  with  his  white  hands  wet  with  flowers 

Dazzles  the  bridemaids  looking  from  the  towers : 

Green  vineyards  and  fair  orchards  far  and  near 

Glitter  with  drops ;  and  heaven  is  sapphire  clear, 

And  the  lark  rings  it,  and  the  pine-trees  glow, 

And  odors  from  the  citrons  come  and  go ; 

And  all  the  landscape — earth  and  sky  and  sea — 

Breathes  like  a  bright-eyed  face  that  laughs  out  openly. 

'Tis  nature,  full  of  spirits,  waked  and  loved. 
E'en  sloth  to-day  goes  quick  and  unreproved  ; 
For  Where's  the  living  soul,  priest,  minstrel,  clown, 
Merchant  or  lord,  that  speeds  not  to  the  town  1 
Hence  happy  faces,  striking  through  the  green 
Of  leafy  roads,  at  every  turn  are  seen  ; 
And  the  far  ships,  lifting  their  sails  of  white 
Like  joyful  hands,  come  up  with  scattered  liglit ; 
Come  gleaming  up — true  to  the  wished- for  day — 
And  chase  the  whistling  brine,  and  swirl  into  the  hay. 

And  well  may  all  the  world  come  crowding  there. 
If  peace  returning  and  processions  rare, 
And  to  crown  all,  a  marriage  in  the  spring. 
Can  set  men's  hearts  and  fancies  on  the  wing : 
For  on  this  beauteous  day  Ravenna's  pride, 
The  daughter  of  their  prince,  becomes  a  bride ; 
A  bride  to  ransom  an  exhausted  land  ; 
And  he  whose  victories  have  obtained  her  hand 
Has  taken  with  the  dawn,  so  flies  report. 
His  promised  journey  to  the  expecting  court. 
With  knightly  pomp,  and  squires  of  high  degree 
The  bold  Giovanni,  Lord  of  Rimini. 

The  road  that  way  is  lined  with  anxious  eyes, 
And  false  announcements  and  fresh  laughters  rise  ; 
The  horsemen  hastens  through  tiie  jeering  crowd, 
And  finds  no  horse  within  the  gates  allowed; 


812  KKCOLLKCTIUNS    OF 

Anil  who  shall  toll  the  drive  thorc  aiul  the  .liii  ? 
Tlio  holla,  tho  drums,  tho  crowds  yet  stiueezing  in. 
The  shouts  from  mere  exuberance  of  delight, 
And  motliers  with  their  babes  in  sore  ati'right, 
And  armed  bands  making  important  way- 
Gallant  and  grave,  the  lords  of  holyday  ; 
Minstrels  and  friars  and  beggars  many  a  one 
That  pray  and  roll  their  blind  eyes  in  the  sun. 
And  all  the  buzzing  throngs  that  hang  like  bees 
On  roofs  and  walls  and  tops  of  garden  trees. 

With  tapestries  bright  the  windows  overflow 
By  lovely  faces  brought  that  come  and  go. 
Till  by  their  work  the  charmers  take  their  seats 
Themselves  the  sweetest  pictures  in  the  streets. 
In  colors  by  light  awnings  beautified ; 
Some  re-adjusting  tresses  newly  tied, 
V  Some  turning  a  trim  waist,  or  o'er  the  flow 

Of  crimson  cloths  hanging  a  hand  of  snow: 
Smiling  and  talking  some,  and  some  serene, 
But  all  with  flowers,  and  all  with  garlands  green, 
And  most  in  fluttering  talk  impatient  for  the  scene. 

At  length  the  approaching  trumpets,  with  a  start 
On  the  smooth  wind  come  dancing  to  the  heart. 
The  crowd  are  mute ;  and  from  the  southern  wall 
A  lordly  blast  gives  answer  to  the  call. 
Then  comes  the  crush;  and  all  who  best  can  strive 
In  shuffling  struggle  toward  the  palace  drive, 
Where  balustered  and  broad,  of  marble  ftiir, 
Its  portico  commands  the  public  square : 
For  there  Count  Guido  is  to  hold  his  state 
With  his  fair  daughter,  seated  o'er  the  gate. 
But  far  too  well  the  square  has  been  supplied : 
And,  after  a  rude  heave  from  side  to  side. 
With  angry  faces  turned  and  nothing  gained. 
The  order  first  found  easiest  is  maintained  ; 
Leaving  the  pathways  only  for  the  crowd. 
The  space  within  for  the  procession  proud. 

For  in  this  manner  is  the  square  set  out : — 
The  sides  half-deep  are  crowded  round  about 
And  faced  with  guards  who  keep  the  horseway  clear; 
And  round  a  fountain  in  the  midst  appear — 
Seated  with  knights  and  ladies  in  discourse — 
Rare  Tuscan  wits  and  warbling  troubadours. 
Whom  Guido,  for  he  loved  the  Muse's  race. 
Has  set  there  to  adorn  his  public  place. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  313 

The  seats  with  boughs  are  shaded  from  above 

Of  bays  and  roses — trees  of  wit  and  love. 

And  in  the  midst  fresh  whistling  through  the  scene 

The  lightsome  fountain  starts  from  out  the  green 

Clear  and  compact;  till  at  its  height  o'errun 

It  shakes  its  loosening  silver  in  the  sun. 

»  *  *  *  * 

Another  start  of  trumpets  with  reply; 

And  o'er  the  gate  a  crimson  canopy 

Opens  to  right  and  left  its  flowing  shade, 

And  Guide  issues  with  the  princely  maid 

And  sits.     The  courtiers  fall  on  either  side 

But  every  look  is  fixed  upon  the  bride, 

Who  seems  all  thought  at  first,  and  hardly  hears 

The  enormous  shout  that  springs  as  she  appears ; 

Till,  as  she  views  the  countless  gaze  below, 

And  faces  that  with  grateful  homage  glow, 

A  home  to  leave  and  husband  yet  to  see 

Are  mixed  with  thoughts  of  lofty  charity : 

And  hard  it  is  she  thinks  to  have  no  will ; 

But  not  to  bless  these  thousands  harder  still. 

With  that  a  keen  and  quivering  sense  of  tears 

Scarce  moves  her  sweet  proud  lip  and  disappears ; 

A  smile  is  underneath  and  breaks  away 

And  round  she  looks  and  breathes  as  best  befits  the  day. 

What  need  I  tell  of  cheeks  and  lips  and  eyes 
The  locks  that  fall,  and  bosom's  balmy  rise  1 
Beauty's  whole  soul  is  here,  though  shadowed  still 
With  anxious  thought  and  doubtful  maiden  will ; 
A  lip  for  endless  love  should  all  prove  just ; 
An  eye  that  can  withdraw  into  as  deep  distrust. 

While  thus  with  earnest  looks  the  people  gaze. 
Another  shout  the  neighboring  quarters  raise ; 
The  train  are  in  the  town,  and  gathering  near 
With  noise  of  cavalry  and  trumpets  clear, 
A  princely  music,  unbedimmed  witli  drums, 
The  mighty  brass  seems  opening  as  it  comes. 
And  now  it  fills  and  now  it  shakes  the  air, 
And  now  it  bursts  into  the  sounding  square, 
At  which  the  crowd  with  such  a  shout  rejoice, 
Each  thinks  he's  deafened  with  his  neighbor's  voice. 
Then  with  a  long-drawn  brcatli  the  clangors  die. 
The  palace  trumpets  give  a  last  reply ; 
And  clustering  hoofs  succeed  with  stately  stir 
Of  snortings  proud  and  clinking  furniture; — 
The  most  majestic  sound  of  human  will: 
Naught  else  is  heard  some  time,  the  people  are  so  still. 
0 


3U  KECOLLr.Cl  IONS    OF 

I  would  fuiii  po  on  with  this  procession,  whicli  llie  art  of  tlie 
poet  conliniu's  to  make  us  see  and  hear  and  almost  iccl,  so  vividly 
doi's  he  describe  the  pajjeantry,  the  noise,  and  the  jostling.  But 
it  (ills  the  whole  canto,  and  there  is  yet  another  poem  for  whicli 
I  nuist  make  room.  Every  mother  knows  these  pathetic  stanzas. 
I  shall  never  forget  attempting  to  read  them  to  my  faithful  maid, 
the  hemmer  of  flounces,  whose  fair-haired  Saxon  boy,  her  pet  and 
mine,  was  then  fast  recovering  from  a  dangerous  illness.  I  at- 
tempted to  read  these  verses,  and  did  read  as  many  as  I  could  for 
the  rising  in  the  throat,  the  hysterica  ^Jrt.ss/o  of  poor  Lear,  and  as 
many  as  my  auditor  could  hear  for  her  own  sobs.  No  doubt  they 
have  often  extorted  such  praises — the  truest  and  the  most  pre- 
cious that  can  be  given. 

TO  T.  L.  II.,  SIX  YEARS  OLD,  DURING  A  SICKNESS. 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 

My  little  patient  boy  ; 
And  balmy  rest  about  thee — 

Smooths  off  the  day's  annoy. 
I  sit  me  down  and  think 

Of  all  thy  winning  ways ; 
Yet  almost  wish  with  sudden  shrink 

That  I  had  less  to  praise. 

Thy  sidelong  pillowed  meekness, 

Thy  thanks  to  all  that  aid. 
Thy  heart  in  pain  and  weakness 

Of  fancied  faults  afraid  ; 
The  little  trembling  hand 

That  wipes  thy  quiet  tears, 
These,  these  are  things  that  may  demand 

Dread  memories  for  years. 

Sorrows  I've  had,  severe  ones, 

I  will  not  think  of  now ; 
And  calmly  midst  my  dear  ones 

Have  wasted  with  dry  brow. 
But  when  thy  fingers  press 

And  pat  my  stooping  head, 
I  can  not  bear  the  gentleness, — 

The  tears  are  in  their  bed. 

Ah,  first-bom  of  thy  mother 
When  life  and  hope  were  new, 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  315 

Kind  playmate  of  thy  brother, 

Thy  sister,  father  too  ; 
My  light  where'er  I  go, 

My  bird  when  prison-bound. 
My  hand-in-hand  companion, — no. 

My  prayers  shall  hold  thee  round. 

To  say  He  has  departed. 

His  voice,  his  face  is  gone  ! 
To  feel  impatient-hearted 

Yet  feel  we  must  bear  on! 
Ah,  I  could  not  endure 

To  whisper  of  such  woe. 
Unless  I  felt  this  sleep  insure 

That  it  will  not  be  so. 

Yes !  still  he's  fixed  and  sleeping ! 

This  silence,  too,  the  while — 
Its  very  hush  and  creeping 

Seem  whispering  us  a  smile. 
Something  divine  and  dim 

Seems  going  by  mine  ear 
Like  parting  wings  of  Seraphim 

Who  sav,  "  We've  finished  here." 


The  name  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  is  united  to  that  of  Leigh 
Hunt  by  many  associations.  They  were  in  Italy  together  ;  they 
were  friends  ;  and  the  survivor  has  never  ceased  to  bewail  the 
untimely  catastrophe  of  that  great  poet.  In  how  many  senses 
does  that  early  and  sudden  death  appear  untimely  to  our  dim 
eyes  I  Doubtless  all  was  wise,  all  just,  all  merciful ;  yet  to  our 
finite  perceptions,  he  seemed  snatched  away  just  as  his  spirit  was 
preparing  to  receive  the  truths  to  which  it  had  before  been 
blinded.  However,  this  rests  with  an  All-wise  and  an  All  mer- 
ciful Judge,  and  is  far  beyond  our  imperfect  speculations. 

In  a  literary  point  of  view,  there  is  no  doubt  but  every  suc- 
ceeding poem  showed  the  gradual  clearing  away  of  the  mists  and 
vapors  with  which,  in  spite  of  his  exquisite  rhythm,  and  a  thou- 
sand beauties  of  detail,  his  fine  genius  was  originally  clouded. 

The  first  time  I  ever  met  with  any  of  his  works,  this  vague- 
ness brought  me  into  a  ludicrous  dilemma.  It  was  in  the  great 
library  of  Tavistock  House  that  Mr.  Perry  one  morning  put  into 
my  hand  a  splendidly  printed,  and  splendidly  bound  volume 
("  Alastor,'    I  think),  and  desired  mo  to  read  it,  and  give  him  my 


816  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

opinion  :  "  You  will  at  least  know,"  said  lie,  *•'  whether  it  be 
worth  any  body  else's  readinji:." 

Accordingly  I  took  up  the  magnificent  presentation  copy,  and 
read  conscientiously  until  visitors  came  in.  I  had  no  marker,  and 
the  richly  bound  volume  closed  as  if  instinctively,  so  that  when  I 
resumed  my  task  on  the  departure  of  the  company,  not  being  able 
to  find  my  place,  I  was  obliged  to  begin  the  book  at  the  first  line. 
More  visitors  came,  and  went,  and  still  the  same  calamity  befell 
me  ;  again,  and  again,  and  again,  I  had  to  search  in  vain  among 
a  succession  of  melodious  lines  as  like  each  other  as  the  waves  of 
the  sea,  for  buoy  or  landmark,  and  had  always  to  put  back  to 
shore,  and  begin  my  voyage  anew.  I  do  not  remember  having 
been  ever  in  my  life  more  ashamed  of  my  own  stupidity  than 
when  obliged  to  say  to  Mr.  Perry,  in  answer  to  his  questions  as 
to  the  result  of  my  morning's  studies,  that,  doubtless,  it  was  a 
very  fine  poem — only  that  I  never  could  tell  when  I  took  up  the 
book,  where  I  had  left  off  half  an  hour  before ;  an  unintended 
criticism,  which,  as  characteristic  both  of  author  and  reader,  very 
much  amused  my  kind  and  clever  host. 

Now,  could  such  a  calamity  befall  even  the  stupidest  of  young 
girls,  in  reading  that  perfection  of  clearness  and  dramatic  con- 
struction, "  The  Cenci  V  Ah  I  what  a  tragic  poet  was  lost  in 
that  boatwreck  I  Could  it  have  happened  with  the  "  Ode  to  the 
Skylark,"  an  ode  as  melodious,  as  various,  and  as  brilliant  as  the 
song  of  the  bird  it  celebrates.  Both  seem  soaring  upward  to 
Heaven,  and  pouring  forth  an  unconscious  hymn  of  praise  and 
thanksgiving. 

TO   THE   SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profii.se  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher. 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  .singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 
Of  the  snnkon  snn. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  317 

O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 
Thou  dost  fioat  and  run ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  ai'ound  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  OTerflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee  1 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower. 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower: 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew. 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aCrial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from  the  view: 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  thieves. 


818  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Sound  oC  vernal  showers 

On  tlie  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  tliy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 
What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 

I  liave  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  th}'  happy  strain  1 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  1 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  1 
AVhat  love  of  thine  own  kind  1  what  Ignorance  of  paini 

With  thy  clear,  keen  joyance 

Languor  can  not  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  come  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep. 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream. 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  1 

We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 
With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 
Of  delightful  sound, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  319 

Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground ! 

Teach'  nae  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 

If  there  be  anywhere  a  companion  poem  to  this,  it  is  John 
Keats's  "  Ode  to  the  Nightingale."  Poor  John  Keats !  he  too 
was  called  in  scorn  a  "Cockney  Poet ;"  he  too  was  a  friend  of 
Leigh  Hunt's ;  he,  too,  died  far  from  his  native  country  ;  not  in- 
deed like  Shelley,  by  sad  mischance,  off  the  coast  of  Italy,  but  by 
slow  disease  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Eternal  City  ; — died  after 
having  done  enough  to  show  the  world  all  that  it  lost  in  him.  No 
one  since  Spenser  has  possessed  a  more  graphic  pen.  His  proces- 
sions not  only  live,  they  move. 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-ward  had  sunk : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot. 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  lunnberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

Oh  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  dcep-delvcd  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth  ! 
Oh  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  IIii)pocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim 
And  purjjle-staineid  mouth  ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  wliere  men  sit  and  hear  each  otlier  groan ; 


820  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Wlicrc  palsy  shakos  a  few  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 

Whore  youth  grows  i)alo,  aiid  spoctor-thin,  and  dies; 
Where  but  to  thiuk  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  Icadcn-eyed  despairs ; 
Where  Beauty  can  not  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away !  away !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards. 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  train  perplexes  and  retards: 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night. 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light. 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways. 

I  can  not  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs. 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild : 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine  ; 
Fast-fading  violets  covered  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine. 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  bees  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  mauy  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die. 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain, — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown: 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy  lands  forlorn. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  321 

Forlorn  !  the  veiy  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu!  the  Fancy  can  not  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !  adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hillside ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  1 

Fled  is  that  music : — do  I  wake  or  sleep  1 

A  most  interesting  Life  of  Keats,  by  Mr.  Monckton  Milnes,  has 
been  recently  published.  Few  works  are  better  worth  reading, 
not  only  for  the  sake  of  the  young  poet,  but  for  that  of  his  gen- 
erous benefactors.  Sir  James  Clarke  and  Mr.  Severn.  It  is  well 
in  an  age,  called  perhaps  more  selfish  than  it  deserves  to  be,  to 
fall  back  upon  such  instances  of  patient  and  unostentatious  kind- 
ness. 

o* 


'S'22  J;KC0  I,  LECTIONS    OF 


XXV. 

AUTHORS    ASSOCIATED    WITH   PLACES. 

CHRISTOPHER    ANSTEY. 

Bath  is  a  very  elegant  and  classical-lookinp:  city.  Standing 
upon  a  steep  hillside,  its  regular  white  buildings  rising  terrace 
above  terrace,  crescent  above  crescent,  glittering  in  the  sun,  and 
charmingly  varied  by  the  green  trees  of  its  park  and  gardens  ; 
its  pretty  suburban  villas  mingling  with  the  beautiful  villages 
that  surround  it  on  every  side  ;  nothing  can  exceed  the  grace  and 
amenity  of  the  picture.  Even  the  railway  contributes,  by  a  rare 
exception,  to  the  eflect  of  the  landscape.  Very  pleasant  is  Bath 
to  look  at.  But  when  contrasted  with  its  old  reputation  as  the 
favorite  resort  of  the  noble  and  the  fair,  the  Baden-Baden  of  its 
day,  to  which  the  well  came  for  amusement,  and  the  sick  as  much 
for  cheerfulness  as  for  cure,  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  the 
!-pirit  has  departed  ;  that  it  is  a  city  of  memories,  the  very  Pom- 
peii of  watering-places.  It  was  a  far  smaller  town  in  that  joy- 
ous time,  and  perhaps  the  stately  streets  that  rise  from  the  old 
springs  in  every  direction,  may  have  made  it  too  spacious  and 
too  commodious  ;  for  fashion  is  a  capricious  deity,  who  loves  of 
all  things  to  be  crowded,  provided  the  crowd  be  fashionable,  and 
does  not  dislike  so  much  gentle  inconvenience  as  may  serve  to 
enhance  the  comfort  and  magnificence  of  her  real  home. 

Whatever  be  the  cause,  Bath,  like  the  Italian  cities,  vihich  it 
is  often  said  to  resemble,  is  picturesque,  silent,  and  empty. 
Lodging  in  Milsom  Street,  the  main  artery  of  the  town,  where 
the  best  shops  are  congregated,  and  at  an  excellent  library,  always 
the  most  frequented  among  shops,  rny  little  maid,  a  shrewd  ob- 
server of  such  matters,  declared  she  knew  every  carriage  that 
passed,  and  could  count  them  on  her  fingers  ;  and  I  myself,  less 
keen-sighted,  did  not  care  to  ask  her  whether  she  meant  the  fin- 
gers on  one  hand  or  on  two. 


A    LITEKAKY     LIFE.  323 

I  speak  this  out  of  pure  regard  to  truth,  since,  for  my  own 
part,  I  owe  Bath  all  gratitude.  Going  thither  with  health  and 
spirits  so  shattered  by  a  long  illness  and  a  great  sorrow,  that  I 
could  not  muster  courage  to  encounter  the  imaginary  dangers  of 
the  Box  Tunnel,  I  returned,  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  so 
completely  restored  in  mind  and  body,  that  when,  in  the  very 
midst  of  that  same  tunnel,  the  ghost  of  my  departed  fear  met  me 
in  the  shape  of  a  story  (a  story  with  variations)  of  the  foolish  lady 
who  had  been  so  exquisitely  silly  as  to  hire  a  fly  to  escape  from 
the  peril,  my  fellow-travelers  really  refused  to  believe  that  the 
person  who  laughed  so  heartily  at  her  past  folly  could  possibly 
have  been  the  real  heroine  of  the  legend.  So  that  I  suspect  I 
left  two  traditions  behind  me  in  the  Box  Tunnel,  first  as  a  sim- 
pleton, then  as  an  impostor. 

A  place  of  interesting  associations  is  Bath.  The  dear  friend, 
whom  I  principally  went  to  see — one  of  a  privileged  few,  who 
carry  the  lively  spirit,  the  ready  indulgence,  the  quick  intel- 
ligence of  youth,  into  wise  and  honored  age,  might  hei'self  almost 
pass  for  one  of  its  recollections.  She  took  me  to  see  the  house, 
where,  fifty  years  before,  Madame  de  Genlis  had  lived,  when 
sent  to  England,  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  Revolution,  with 
Mademoiselle  d' Orleans  ;  and  described  the  looks  and  manners 
of  the  quiet,  steady  pupil,  and  the  flighty  governess,  as  if  it  had 
been  yesterday.  She  walked  with  me  through  the  street  where 
Mrs.  Thrale  had  shone  forth  in  both  her  phases — the  hostess  and 
friend  of  Dr.  Johnson,  and  Piozzi's  slandered,  defiant,  but  not  un- 
happy wife.  Miss  Burney  never  depicted  her  better.  And  Mi.ss 
Burney  herself  she  showed  forth  nearly  as  well  as  that  clever, 
conceited,  prim,  aflected,  die-away  little  authoress,  who  never  for 
one  moment  (unlucky  body  !)  could  forget  that  she  was  an  au- 
thoress— ay,  and  the  authoress  of  "  Cecilia"  too,  has  shown  her- 
self to  all  posterity  in  that  looking-glass,  her  "  Diary."  Then 
she  went  through  all  the  past  dynasties  of  the  drama — Kembles, 
Linleys,  EUistons  ;  and  last  of  all  she  took  me  to  Bathford,  to 
gaze  upon  Gainsborough's  admirable  portrait  of  Q,uin,  which 
looks  just  as  if  he  was  preparing  to  sit  down  to  a  John  Dory. 

A  place  full  of  associations  is  Bath.  When  we  had  fairly  done 
with  the  real  people,  there  were  great  fictions  to  fall  back  upon  ; 
and  1  am  not  sure,  true  and  living  human  beings  as  Horace  Wal- 
pole  and  Madame  d'Arblay  have  shown  themselves  in  their  let- 


S24  KECOLI.KCTIONS    OF 

tors  and  jouriiuls — lull  of  that  great  characteristic  of  our  human 
nature,  iuconsislency,  of  strength  and  weakness,  of  wisdom  and 
folly,  of  virtues  and  faults  ;  I  am  not  sure,  eminently  human  as 
these  worthies  shine  forth  in  their  writings,  that  those  who  never 
lived  except  in  the  writings  of  other  people — the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  Miss  Austen,  for  example — are  not  the  more  real  of 
the  two.  Her  exquisite  story  of  "  Persuasion"  absolutely  haunted 
me.  Whenever  it  rained  (and  it  did  rain  every  day  that  T  stayed 
in  Bath,  except  one),  I  thought  of  Aime  Elliott  meeting  Captain 
Wentworth,  when  driven  by  a  shower  to  take  refuge  in  a  shoe- 
shop.  Whenever  I  got  out  of  breath  in  climbing  up-hill  (which, 
considering  that  one  dear  friend  lived  in  Lansdown  Crescent,  and 
another  on  Beechen  Cliff",  happened  also  pretty  often),  I  thought 
of  that  same  charming  Anne  Elliott,  and  of  that  ascent  from  the 
lower  town  to  the  upper,  during  which  all  her  tribulations  ceased. 
And  when  at  last,  by  dint  of  trotting  up  one  street  and  down 
another,  I  incurred  the  unromantic  calamity  of  a  blister  on  the 
heel,  even  that  grievance  became  classical  by  the  recollection  of 
the  similar  catastrophe,  which,  in  consequence  of  her  peregrina- 
tions with  the  Admiral,  had  befallen  dear  Mrs.  Croft.  I  doubt 
if  any  one,  even  Scott  himself,  have  left  such  perfect  impressions 
of  character  and  place  as  Jane  Austen. 

Besides  those  pleasures  of  memory,  Bath,  eight  years  ago,  was 
not  wanting  in  living  illustrations.  Poor  Miss  Pickering,  so  fer- 
tile as  a  novelist,  so  excellent  as  a  woman  ;  my  friend.  Miss  Wad- 
dington,  an  elegant  authoress,  who  charmed  the  languors  of  illness 
by  the  creations  of  fancy  ;  Mr.  Reade,  also  my  friend,  whose 
poem  of  "  Italy"  is  so  full  of  classical  grace  ;  Mr.  Beckford,  ori- 
ginal in  every  act  and  word,  whose  "  Vathek"  was  as  strange  a 
work  as  his  "  Tower  on  Lansdown,"  and  whose  fine  place  at 
Fonthill  should  never  have  been  built,  or  never  have  been  de- 
stroyed ;  last  and  best,  Mr.  Landor,  of  whom,  with  his  vivacity, 
his  vigor,  and  fei-tility  of  thought,  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that 
his  first  work  was  published  in  the  last  century,  and  who  had 
gathered  together,  in  a  narrow  room,  specimens  of  art — "  little 
bits,"  as  he  called  them,  which  might  put  to  shame  far  larger 
collections.  It  was  impossible  not  to  admire  ;  but  it  was  dan- 
gerous to  praise  in  that  room  ;  for  the  proprietor  had  a  trick  of 
bestowing,  which  caught  one  so  unawares,  that  one  could  hardly 
express  the  gratitude  for  the  surprise  :  it  was  felt  though,  hoAV- 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  325 

ever  ill-spoken.  He  gave  me  a  small  picture,  by  Wright,  of 
Derby — a  night  view  of  Vesuvius,  in  which  the  two  lights,  the 
moon  and  the  volcano,  are  shining  down  upon  the  sea,  as  brightly 
and  as  distinctly  as  they  could  have  done  in  his  own  verse.  These 
were  the  literary  names  of  Bath  ;  and  there  was  a  living  artist 
too — Mr.  Barker — an  interesting  old  man,  who  had,  with  an  ar- 
tist's improvidence,  devoted  years  of  labor  to  a  fine,  but  immova- 
ble fresco — the  taking  of  a  Greek  island  by  the  Turks — painted 
on  the  walls  of  his  own  house.  The  talent  has  proved  hereditary. 
I  saw  there  a  sketch  by  his  son,  of  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Or- 
leans ;  a  mere  sketch,  but  one  in  which  the  homeliness  and  evi- 
dent truth  of  the  accessories  added  much  to  the  pathos  of  the 
scene.  I  do  not  remember  in  art  a  inore  touching  rendering  of 
family  grief;  it  struck  the  heart  like  a  cry. 

The  neighborhood  of  Bath  is  still  more  beautiful  than  the  city. 
Even  the  suburbs,  where  tree  and  garden,  hill  and  valley,  rail- 
way and  river,  mingle  so  picturesquely  with  the  rich  tint  of  the 
stone  of  which  the  houses  are  built,  and  the  striking  architectural 
forms  ;  and  where  pretty  old  churches  and  church-yards,  rich  in 
yew  and  lime,  seem  to  unite  town  and  country.  Of  the  surround- 
ing villages,  Batheaston  was  memorable  for  the  blue-stocking 
vagaries  of  a  certain  Lady  Miller,  a  Somersetshire  Clemence  Isaure, 
who  some  seventy  years  ago  offered  prizes  for  the  best  verses 
thrown  into  an  antique  vase  ;  the  prize  consisting,  not  of  a  golden 
violet,  but  of  a  wreath  of  laurel  ;  and  the  whole  affair  producing, 
as  was  to  be  expected,  a  great  deal  more  ridicule  than  poetry. 
Claverton,  another  pretty  village,  was  celebrated  for  a  travestie 
of  a  different  order — the  curious  book  called  "  The  Spiritual 
(otuixote,"  written  by  Mr.  Graves  ;  and  Weston,  prettiest  of  all, 
is  the  delight  and  resort  of  poets,  if  not  their  residence. 

But  by  far  the  most  interesting  spot  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Bath  is  Prior  Park,  built  by  Allen  the  bookseller,  the  friend  of 
Pope  and  the  original  of  Fielding's  Allworthy,  afterwards  the 
property  and  residence  of  Warburton,  and  now  the  site  of  a  Roman 
Catholic  College. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  first  visit  to  this  most  beautiful  place, 
on  a  sunny,  dewy  day,  between  May  and  April,  the  first  of  one 
month  or  the  last  of  the  other,  the  very  fairest  moment  of  the 
year,  all  nature  smiling  around  me,  and  every  pleasure  enhanced 


o"Jt)  KKCO  1- LECTIONS    OK 

l)y  till.'  (iolifrhtful  iiKiniiors  of  Dr.  Ikuik's,  the  then  principal  of 
tho  ostablishmeut. 

The  house  is  an  elopaul  and  stately  erection,  separated  by  loufj 
corridors  from  two  wings  almost  equal  to  itself  in  size  and  extent. 
Tlic  portico  is  of  the  noblest  architecture,  and  double  flights  of 
stops,  tliixht  after  flight,  exquisite  in  design  and  proportion,  stretch 
down  from  the  magnificent  colonnade  to  the  sloping  lawn.  Stand- 
iuff  under  the  lofty  pillars,  leaning  over  the  marble  balustrade, 
with  a  splendid  peacock  close  beside  me  expanding  his  gorgeous 
plumage  to  the  sun,  I  thought  I  had  never  beheld  a  scene  that 
lornied  so  perfect  a  picture  to  the  eye  and  to  the  mind. 

In  the  foreground  the  turfy  lawn,  dotted  here  and  there  with 
graceful  shrubs,  descended  to  a  sweep  of  calm,  bright  waters  as 
clear  as  crj'stal,  giving  back  the  fleecy  clouds  and  the  deep  blue 
sky,  and  fringed  in  on  either  side  by  down-dropping  elms,  col- 
umnar poplars,  and  majestic  cedars.  Across  the  lake  the  city 
presented  itself  in  its  most  picturesque  point  of  view  :  the  old  but- 
tressed abbey,  church-towers  and  spires,  streets,  squares,  and  cres- 
cents rising  each  over  each,  mixed  with  park  and  gardens,  and 
crowned  by  the  high  hills  of  Lansdown  and  Mr.  Beckford's  tower. 
All  was  gay  and  glittering  in  the  tender  verdure  of  spring,  leaves 
just  bursting  or  just  burst,  a  sweet  balminess  in  the  air,  and  the 
odor  of  woods  and  flowers  floating  around  us,  with  the  song  of 
birds  and  the  thousand  sounds  of  new-born  insects.  It  was  an 
hour  never  to  be  forgotten  I  • 

He  whose  intellect  and  kindness  lent  attraction  even  to  that 
loveliest  scenery  died  soon  after.  The  charm  of  Dr.  Baincs's  con- 
versation is  difficult  to  describe.  He  was  the  son  of  a  Yorkshire 
farmer,  and  had  risen  to  the  rank  of  Vicar  Apostolic,  titular 
Bishop  of  some  Eastern  see,  and  to  the  highest  influence  among 
his  English  co-religionists  by  the  united  pov/er  of  talent  and  of 
character.  The  little  tinct  of  simplicity  which  he  retained  from 
his  rustic  origin  went  well  with  his  courtly  bearing.  That  small 
touch  of  provincial  naivete  gave  to  his  high-bred  polish  the  fin- 
ishing grace  of  truth.  It  was  charming  to  see  him  surrounded  by 
the  boys  of  one  w^ing,  Howards,  Talbots,  Fitzgeralds,  O'Connells 
— for  O'Connell  was  then  "  a  name  to  conjure  withal" — and  the 
elder  students  of  the  other  building,  young  men  in  college  cap 
and  gown.  It  was  a  double  establishment,  one  a  school  for  the 
purpose  of  secular  education,  the  other  a  seminary  for  the  priest- 


A    LITEKARY    LIFE.  327 

hood  ;  but  all  the  inhabitants,  elder  or  younger,  without  any  dis- 
tinction, seemed  to  claim  Dr.  Baines  as  the  general  father.  He 
reigned  in  the  hearts  of  all. 

Full  of  taste  and  information  he  avoided  everything  that  ap- 
proached to  controversy,  and  addressed  himself  to  the  topics  most 
likely  to  interest  his  hearers,  as  if  they  had  been  precisely  those 
most  interesting  to  himself.  He  showed  me  Miss  Agnew's  out- 
line engravings,  speaking  of  her  "  Geraldine"  (then  recently  pub- 
lished) with  high  but  discriminating  praise,  and  regretting  her 
retirement  to  a  convent,  a  thing  he  rarely  saw  cause  to  recom- 
mend. He  shoAved  me  a  little  volume  of  Latin  hymns,  the  hymns 
Sir  Walter  Scott  liked  so  well,  and  told  me  that  Mr.  Moore,  on 
his  last  visit  to  Prior  Park,  had,  at  his  request,  taken  away  a 
copy.  "  I  hope,"  said  he,  "  that  that  great  artist  in  words  may 
give  us  an  English  version  of  some  of  the  few  poems,  professedly 
religious,  which  have  always  had  attractions  for  poets.  It  would 
be  a  happy  close  of  a  literary  life,  the  prayer  before  going  to 
rest." 

He  gave  a  most  amusing  account  of  Cardinal  Mezzofante — a 
man  in  all  but  his  marvelous  gift  of  tongues  as  simple  as  an  in- 
fant. "  The  last  time  I  was  in  Rome,"  said  he,  "  we  went  to- 
gether to  the  Propaganda,  and  heard  speeches  delivered  in  thirty- 
five  or  thirty-six  languages  by  converts  of  various  nations.  Among 
them  were  natives  of  no  less  than  three  tribes  of  Tartars,  each 
talking  his  own  dialect.  They  did  not  understand  each  other, 
but  the  Cardinal  understood  them  all,  and  could  tell  with  critical 
nicety  the  points  in  which  one  jargon  differed  from  the  others. 
We  dined  together  ;  and  I  entreated  him,  having  been  in  the 
Tower  of  Babel  all  the  morning,  to  let  us  stick  to  English  for 
the  rest  of  the  day.  Accordingly  he  did  stick  to  English,  which 
he  spoke  as  fluently  as  we  do,  and  with  the  same  accuracy  not 
only  of  grammar  but  of  idiom.  His  only  trip  was  in  saying, 
'  that  was  before  the  time  when  I  remember,'  instead  of  '  before 
my  time.'  Once,  too,  I  thought  him  mistaken  in  the  pronuncia- 
tion of  a  word.  But  when  I  returned  to  England,"  continued 
Dr.  Baines,  "  I  found  that  my  way  was  either  provincial  or  old- 
fashioned,  and  that  I  was  wrong  and  he  was  right.  In  the  course 
of  the  evening  his  servant  brought  a  Welsh  Bible  which  had  been 
left  for  him.  '  Ah,'  said  he,  '  this  is  the  very  thing  I  I  wanted 
to  learn  Welsh  I'     Tlien  he  remembered  that  it  was  in  all  prob- 


;^2S  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

ability  not  tlio  nuthori/.ed  version.  'Never  mind,'  he  said,  'I 
doji't  think  it  will  do  inc  any  harm.'  Six  weeks  alter,  I  met  the 
I'iirdinal,  and  asked  him  how  he  got  on  with  his  Welsh.  '  Oh  !' 
replied  he,  '  1  know  it  now.      I  have  done  with  it.'  "* 

1  do  believe  that,  had  Dr.  Baines  been  spared,  his  wisdom,  his 
spirit  of  conciliation  and  his  thorough  knowledge  of  the  temper 
of  England,  would  have  prevented  the  disastrous  feud  which 
must  grieve  all  who  hold  the  great  Christian  tenets  of  charity 
and  love. 

Traces  of  the  manner  in  which  people  lived  at  Bath  while  it 
was  a  small  inconvenient  town  much  resorted  to  by  the  sick  and 
the  idle,  may  be  found  scattered  up  and  down  a  great  variety  of 
books.  The  list  that  crowds  upon  me  would  fill  many  pages. 
Letter-writers,  dramatists,  poets,  biographers,  all,  first  or  last,  be- 
take themselves  or  their  heroes  to  "  the  Bath."  Sheridan  has 
made  it  the  scene,  not  of  his  most  famous,  but  of  his  most  charm- 
ing play  ;  and  Bob  Acres  with  his  courage  oozing  out  of  his  fin- 
gers' ends,  and  the  comfortable  suggestion  that  "  there  is  snug 
lying  in  the  abbey,"  will  last  as  long  as  comedy  exists. 

Perhaps  the  best  description  of  Bath  in  its  heyday  of  fashion 
and  popularity  a  century  ago,  is  to  be  found  in  the  verse  of  An- 
stey,  burlesque  although  it  be. 

"  The  New  Bath  Guide,"  written  in  a  light  and  tripping  man- 
ner, well  adapted  to  the  subject  and  little  previously  known,  had 
an  immense  vogue  in  its  day  ;  a  vogue  all  the  greater  that  soma 
of  the  characters  were  supposed  to  be  real,  and  the  poignancy  of 
personal  satire  was  added  to  general  pleasantly.  It  is  so  far  forgot- 
ten by  the  general  reader,  that  the  extracts  upon  which  I  may  ven- 
ture will  probably  be  as  good  as  new.  I  do  not  apologize  for  a  few 
omissions  rendered  necessary  by  the  better  manners  of  our  times. 

The  plan  of  the  work  is  very  simple  :  Mr.  Simkin  Blunderhead, 
the  good-humored,  gullible,  but  not  silly  heir  of  a  north  country 
knight,  is  sent  with  his  sister  Prudence,  his  cousin  Jenny,  and 
their  waiting-maid,  to  drink  the  waters  and  look  at  the  world. 
The  story  is  told  in  letters  from  Simkin  to  his  mother,  and  from 
Miss  Jenny  to  a  female  friend. 

*  M.  Kossuth,  who,  though  no  Mezzofante,  either  in  simplicity  or  the 
gift  of  tongues,  has  a  command  over  our  language  very  rare  in  a  foreigner, 
bays  that  he  learned  English  in  a  Turkish  prison  from  three  books,  Shaks- 
j>eare,  the  Bible,  and  an  Hungarian  dictionary. 


A     LITERARY    LIFE,  329 

We  are  all  at  a  wonderful  distance  from  home, 

Two  hundred  and  sixty  long  miles  have  we  come  ! 

And  now  you'll  rejoice,  my  dear  mother,  to  hear 

We  are  safely  arrived  at  the  sign  of  "  The  Bear." 

As  we  all  came  for  health,  as  a  body  may  say, 

I  sent  for  a  doctor  the  very  next  day; 

And  the  doctor  was  pleased,  though  so  short  was  the  warning, 

To  come  to  our  lodgings  the  very  next  morning. 

He  looked  very  thoughtful  and  grave  to  be  sure. 

And  I  said  to  myself — There's  no  hope  of  a  cure ! 

But  I  thought  I  should  faint  when  I  saw  him,  dear  mother, 

Feel  my  pulse  with  one  hand,  with  a  watch  in  the  other ; 

No  token  of  death  that  is  heard  in  the  night 

Could  ever  have  put  me  so  much  in  a  fright; 

Thinks  I — 'tis  all  over — my  sentence  is  past. 

And  now  he  is  counting  how  long  I  shall  last. 

Then  follows  a  good  deal  of  medical  detail  and  of  doctor's 
Latin  very  comically  dragged  into  the  verse.  In  a  subsequent 
letter,  Mr.  Anstey,  who  seems  to  have  had  as  great  a  horror  of 
the  faculty  as  Moliere  himself,  gives  a  report  of  a  consultation 
and  its  consequences  : 

If  ever  I  ate  a  good  supper  at  night, 

I  dreamt  of  the  devil  and  waked  in  a  fright; 

And  so  as  I  grew  every  day  worse  and  worse 

The  doctor  advised  me  to  send  for  a  nurse. 

And  the  nurse  was  so  willing  my  health  to  restore, 

She  advised  me  to  send  for  a  few  doctors  more ; 

For  when  any  difficult  work's  to  be  done. 

Many  heads  can  dispatch  it  much  better  than  one ; 

And  I  find  there  are  doctors  enough  in  this  place 

If  you  want  to  consult  in  a  dangerous  case. 

So  they  all  met  together  and  thus  began  talking : 

"  Good  doctor  I'm  yours — 'tis  a  fine  day  for  walking ; 

Sad  news  in  tlie  papers — heaven  knows  who's  to  blame ! 

The  colonies  seem  to  be  all  in  a  flame — 

This  Stamp  Act  no  doubt  might  be  good  for  the  crown, 

But  I  fear  'tis  a  pill  that  will  never  go  down. — 

What  can  Portugal  mean  1 — Is  she  going  to  stir  up 

Convulsions  and  heats  in  the  bowels  of  Europe  1 

'Twill  be  fatal  if  England  relapses  again 

From  the  ill-blood  and  humors  of  Bourbon  and  Spain." 

Says  I:  "My  good  doctors,  I  can't  understand 

Why  the  duse  you  take  so  many  patients  in  hand ; 

No  doubt  ye  are  all  of  ye  great  politicians. 

But  at  present  my  bowels  have  need  of  physicians, 


330  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Consiilor  my  case  iii  tlie  light  it  deserves 
Aiul  pity  till'  state  of  my  stomach  and  nerves." 
Ihit  a  lisht  little  doctor  began  a  dispute 
Alx'Ut  administration,  Newcastle  and  Bute, 
Talked  much  of  economy — 


"Come,  let's  be  gone, 

We've  another  bad  case  to  consider  at  one." 

So  thus  they  brushed  off,  each  his  cane  at  his  nose, 
AVhcn  Jenny  came  in  who  had  heard  all  their  prose  : 
'•  I'll  teach  them,"  says  she,  "  at  their  next  consultation 
To  come  and  take  fees  for  the  good  of  the  nation." 
I  could  not  conceive  what  the  duse  'twas  she  meant, 
But  she  seized  all  the  stufl'  that  the  doctor  had  sent 
And  out  of  the  window  she  flung  it  down  souse, 
As  the  first  politician  went  out  of  the  house. 
Decoctions  and  syrups  around  him  all  flew, 
rills,  boluses,  jalap,  and  apozem  too ; 
His  wig  had  the  luck  an  emulsion  to  meet 
And  squash  went  a  gallipot  under  his  feet. 

Having  turned  out  the  doctors,  the  whole  party  improve  both 
in  health  and  spirits  ;  Miss  Jenny  picks  up  a  military  lover,  under 
whose  auspices  Simkin  turns  beau  : 

No  city,  dear  mother,  this  city  excels 

In  charming  sweet  sounds  both  of  fiddles  and  bells, 

I  thought,  like  a  fool,  that  they  only  would  ring 

For  a  wedding,  or  judge,  or  the  birth  of  a  king ; 

But  I  found  'twas  for  me  that  the  good-natured  people 

Rang  so  hard  that  I  thought  they  would  pull  down  the  steeple ; 

So  I  took  out  my  purse  as  I  hate  to  be  shabby 

And  paid  all  the  men  when  they  came  from  the  abbey. 

Yet  some  think  it  strange  they  should  make  such  a  riot 

In  a  place  where  rich  folk  would  be  glad  to  be  quiet. 

Tabitha  Rust,  the  waiting-maid,  takes  a  bath  : 

'Twas  a  glorious  sight  to  behold  the  fair  sex 
All  wading  with  gentlemen  up  to  their  necks; 
And  to-day  many  persons  of  rank  and  condition 
Were  boiled  by  command  of  an  able  physician. 
Dean  Spavin,  Dean  Mangy  and  Doctor  De  Squirt 
Were  all  sent  from  Cambridge  to  rub  off  their  dirt; 
Judge  Bore  and  the  worthy  old  Counselor  Pest 
Joined  issue  at  once  and  went  in  with  the  rest ; 


A    LITERARY    LIFE,  331 

Old  Baron  Vanteaser;  a  man  of  great  wealth, 
Brought  his  lady  the  Baroness  here  for  her  health ; 
Miss  Scratchit  went  in  and  the  Countess  of  Scales, 
Both  ladies  of  very  great  fashion  in  Wales; 
Then  all  on  a  sudden  two  persons  'of  worth, 
My  Lady  Pandora  Macscurvy  came  forth 
With  General  Sulphur  arrived  from  the  North. 
So  Tahby  you  see  had  the  honor  of  washing 
With  folks  of  condition  and  very  high  fashion; 
But  in  spite  of  good  company,  poor  little  soul, 
She  shook  both  her  ears  like  a  mouse  in  a  bowl. 

This  description  of  the  two  sexes  bathing  in  common  in  the 
chief  water-drinking  place  of  England  so  recently  as  during  the 
American  War,  would  seem  incredible  if  it  were  not  confirmed 
by  an  almost  cotemporary  writer,  Smollett,  in  his  last,  and 
incomparably  his  best  novel,  "  The  Expedition  of  Humphrey 
Clinker." 

Our  friend  Simkin  prepares  for  a  ball : 

Thank  Heaven,  of  late,  ray  dear  mother,  my  face  is 

Not  a  little  regarded  at  all  public  places : 

For  I  ride  in  a  chair  with  my  hands  in  a  muff. 

And  have  bought  a  silk  coat,  and  embroidered  the  cuff; 

But  the  weather  was  cold,  and  the  coat  it  was  thin, 

So  the  tailor  advised  me  to  line  it  with  skin. 

But  what  with  my  Nivernois  hat  can  compare. 

Bag-wig  and  laced  ruffles  and  black  solitaire  1 

And  what  can  a  man  of  true  fashion  denote 

Like  a  yard  of  good  ribbon  tied  under  his  throat  1 

My  buckles  and  box  are  in  exquisite  taste; 

The  one  is  of  paper,  the  other  of  paste ; 

And  my  stockings  of  silk  are  just  come  from  the  hosier. 

For  to-night  I'm  to  dance  with  the  charming  Miss  Toser. 

He  goes  to  the  ball.     After  two  or  thee  pages  of  rhapsodies  : 

But  hark!  now  they  strike  the  melodious  string, 

The  vaulted  roof  echoes,  the  mansions  all  ring ; 

At  the  sound  of  the  hautboy,  the  bass  and  the  fiddle, 

Sir  Boreas  Blubber  stejjs  fortli  in  the  middle, 

Like  a  hollyhock,  noble,  majestic  and  tall. 

Sir  Boreas  Blubber  first  ojjcns  the  ball. 

Sir  Boreas,  great  in  the  minuet  known. 

Since  the  day  tliat  for  dancing  his  talents  were  shown 

Where  the  science  is  practiced  by  gentlemen  grown. 

How  he  puts  on  his  hat  with  a  smile  on  his  face 


S82  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Aiul  lUlivcrs  his  haiul  with  an  exquisite  grace  ! 

How  gently  he  oflers  Miss  Carrot  before  us 

Miss  Carrot  Fitz-oozer  a  niece  of  Lord  Porus ! 

How  nimbly  he  paces,  how  active  and  light ! 

One  never  can  Judge  of  a  man  at  first  sight; 

But  as  near  as  I  guess  from  the  size  of  his  calf 

He  may  weigh  about  twenty-three  stone  and  a  half. 

Now  why  should  I  mention  a  hundred  or  more 

Who  went  the  same  circle  as  others  before 

To  a  tune  that  they  played  us  a  hundred  times  o'er  1 

I  must  find  room  for  some  scraps  of  a  public  breakfast.    Simkin 
invokes  the  desire  of  popularity  : 

•'Twas  you  made  ruy  Lord  Ragamuffin  come  here, 
Who,  they  say,  has  been  lately  created  a  peer, 
And  to-daj',  with  extreme  complaisance  and  respect,  asked 
All  the  people  of  Bath  to  a  general  breakfast. 

You've  heard  of  my  Lady  Bunbutter,  no  doubt, 

How  she  loves  an  assembly,  fandango,  or  rout ; 

No  lady  in  London  is  half  so  expert 

At  a  snug  private  party  her  friends  to  divert ; 

But  they  say  that  of  late  she's  grown  sick  of  the  town, 

And  often  to  Bath  condescends  to  come  down : 

Iler  ladyship's  favorite  house  is  "  The  Bear," 

Her  chariot  and  servants  and  horses  are  there. 

Now,  my  lord  had  the  honor  of  coming  down  post 

To  pay  his  respects  to  so  famous  a  toast; 

In  hopes  he  her  ladyship's  favor  might  win. 

By  playing  the  part  of  a  host  at  an  inn. 

He  said  it  would  greatly  our  pleasure  promote 

If  we  all  for  Spring  Gardens  set  out  in  a  boat ; 

Though  I  never  as  yet  could  his  reason  explain 

Why  we  all  sallied  forth  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

For  sure  such  confusion  was  never  yet  known. 

Here  a  cap  and  a  hat,  there  a  cardinal  blown ; 

While  his  lordship,  embroidered  and  powdered  all  o'er, 

Was  bowing,  and  handing  the  ladies  ashore. 

How  the  misses  did  huddle,  and  scuddle,  and  run, 

One  would  think  to  be  wet  must  be  very  good  fun ; 

For  by  waggling  their  gown-tails  they  seemed  to  take  jmins 

To  moisten  their  pinions,  like  ducks  when  it  rains ; 

And  'twas  pretty  to  see,  how  like  birds  of  a  feather 

The  people  of  quality  all  flocked  together ; 

All  pressing,  addressing,  caressing,  and  fond, 

Just  as  so  many  ganders  and  geese  in  a  pond. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  333 

You've  read  all  their  names  in  the  news,  I  suppose, 
But  for  fear  you  have  not,  lake  the  list  as  it  goes : 

There  was  Lady  Greasewrister, 

And  Madam  Van  Twister, 

Her  ladyship's  sister ; 

Lord  Cram  and  Lord  Vulter, 

Sir  Brandish  O'Culter, 

With  Marshal  Carouser, 

And  old  Ludy  Drouser, 
And  the  great  Hanoverian  Baron  Pansmouser, 
Besides  many  others  who  all  in  the  rain  went 
On  purpose  to  honor  this  grand  entertainment. 
The  company  made  a  most  brilliant  appearance. 
And  ate  bread  and  butter  with  great  perseverance; 
All  the  chocolate,  too,  that  my  lord  set  before  'em, 
The  ladies  dispatched  with  the  utmost  decorum; 
And  had  I  a  voice  that  was  stronger  than  steel. 
With  twice  fifty  tongues  to  express  what  I  feel. 
And  as  many  good  mouths,  yet  I  never  could  utter 
All  the  speeches  my  lord  made  to  Lady  Bunbutter ! 

Now  why  should  the  Muse,  my  dear  mother,  relate 

The  misfortunes  that  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  great  1 

As  homeward  we  came — 'tis  with  sorrow  you'll  hear 

What  a  dreadful  disaster  attended  the  peer: 

In  landing  old  Lady  Bumfidget  and  daughter 

This  obsequious  lord  tumbled  into  the  water ; 

But  a  nymph  of  the  flood  brought  him  safe  to  the  boat, 

And  I  left  all  the  ladies  a  cleaning  his  coat. 

A  worse  disaster  than  that  which  befell  Lord  Ragamuffin  is  in 
store  for  our  good-humored  letter-writer.  His  friend,  Captain 
Cormorant,  who,  by  the  way,  turns  out  to  be  no  captain  at  all, 
and  who  had  undertaken,  among  other  fashionable  accomplish- 
ments, to  initiate  him  in  the  mysteries  of  lansquenet,  cheats  him 
out  of  seven  hundred  pounds ;  so  that  Miss  Jenny  loses  her  lover, 
and  her  cousin  his  money  at  one  stroke.  Prudence  and  Tabitha 
also  come  in  for  their  share  of  misadventures ;  and  the  whole 
party  return  crest-fallen  and  discomfited  to  the  good  old  Lady 
Blunderhead  and  their  Yorkshire  Manor-house. 


334  KECOLLECTIOXS    OF 


XXVL 

AMERICAN    POETS. 

JOHN    GUEENLEAF    WHITTIER — FITZ-GREENE    IIALLECK. 

I  DID  a  great  injustice  the  other  day  when  I  said  that  the 
Americans  had  at  last  a  great  poet.  I  should  have  remembered 
that  poets,  like  sorrows, 

"  Come  not  single  spies 
But  in  battalions." 

There  is  commonly  a  flight  of  those  singing-birds,  as  we  had 
ourselves  at  the  beginning  of  the  present  century  ;  and  besides 
Professor  Longfellow,  Bryant,  Willis,  Lowell  and  Poe  do  the 
highest  honor  to  America. 

The  person,  however,  whom  I  should  have  most  injured  myself 
in  forgetting,  for  my  injustice  could  not  damage  a  reputation  such 
as  his,  was  John  G.  Whittier,  the  most  intensely  national  of 
American  bards. 

Himself  a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  the  two  most  re- 
markable of  his  productions  are  on  subjects  in  which  that  active 
altliough  peaceful  sect  take  a  lively  interest  :  the  anti-slavery 
cause,  in  the  present  day  ;  and  the  persecution  of  the  duakers, 
which  casts  such  deep  disgrace  on  the  memory  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers  and  their  immediate  successors  in  the  early  history  of 
New  England. 

Strange  it  seems  to  us  in  this  milder  age,  that  these  men, 
themselves  flying  from  the  intolerance  of  the  Old  Country,  should, 
the  moment  they  attained  to  any  thing  like  power,  nay,  even 
while  disputing  with  the  native  Indians,  not  the  possession  of 
the  soil,  but  the  mere  privilege  of  dwelling  peaceably  therein,  at 
once  stiffen  themselves  into  a  bigotry  and  a  persecution  not  ex- 
celled by  the  horrors  of  the  Star  Chamber !  should,  as  soon  as 
they  attained  the  requisite  physical  force,  chase  and  scourge,  and 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  335 

burn  and  sell  their  fellow-creatures  into  slavery,  for  that  very 
exercise  of  private  judgment  on  religious  subjects,  that  very  de- 
termination to  interpret  freely  the  Book  of  Life,  which  had  driven 
themselves  into  exile  I  Oh  I  many  are  the  causes  of  thankful- 
ness which  we  owe  to  the  Providence  that  cast  us  upon  a  more 
enlightened  age  ;  but  for  nothing  ought  we  more  devoutly  to  ren- 
der thanks  to  God  than  that  in  our  days  the  deeds  recited  in  Mr. 
Whittier's  splendid  ballad  of  "  Cassandra  Southcote"  would  be 
impossible. 

His  poem  itself  can  scarcely  be  overrated.  The  march  of  the 
verse  has  something  that  reminds  us  of  the  rhythm  of  Mr.  Mac- 
aulay's  fine  classical  ballads,  something  which  is  resemblance,  not 
imitation  ;  while  in  the  tone  of  mind  of  the  author,  his  earnest- 
ness, his  eloquence,  his  pathos,  there  is  much  that  resembles  the 
constant  force  and  occasional  beauty  of  Ebenezer  Elliot.  While 
equally  earnest,  however,  and  equally  eloquent,  there  is  in  Mr. 
Whittier,  not  only  a  more  sustained,  but  a  higher  tone  than  that 
of  the  Corn-law  Rhymer.  It  would  indeed  be  difficult  to  tell  the 
story  of  a  terrible  oppression  and  a  merciful  deliverance,  a  deliver- 
ance springing  from  the  justice,  the  sympathy,  the  piety  of  our 
countrymen,  the  English  captains,  with  more  striking  eflect.  I 
transcribe  the  prose  introduction,  which  is  really  necessary  to 
render  such  an  outrage  credible,  although  one  feels  intuitively 
that  the  story  must  have  been  true,  precisely  because  it  was  too 
strangely  wicked  for  fiction. 

"  This  ballad  has  its  foundation  upon  a  somewhat  remarkable 
event  in  the  history  of  Puritan  intolerance.  Two  young  persons, 
son  and  daughter  of  Lawrence  Southwick,  of  Salem,  who  had 
himself  been  imprisoned  and  deprived  of  all  his  property  for  having 
entertained  two  (duakers  at  his  house,  were  fined  ten  pounds  each 
for  non-attendance  at  church,  which  they  were  unable  to  pay. 
The  case  being  represented  to  the  General  Court  at  Boston,  that 
body  issued  an  order  which  may  still  be  scon  on  the  court  records, 
bearing  the  signature  of  Edward  Rawson,  Secretary,  by  which 
the  Treasurer  of  the  County  was  '  fully  empowered  to  sell  the 
said  persons  to  any  of  the  English  nation  at  Virginia  or  Barbadoes 
to  answer  said  fines.'  An  attempt  was  made  to  carry  this  bar- 
barous order  into  execution,  but  no  shipmaster  was  found  willing 
to  convey  them  to  the  West  Indies.  Yide  Sewall's  '  History,' 
pp.  225-G,  G.  Bishop." 


oS6  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

To  the  Qod  of  all  truo  mercies  let  my  blessing  rise  to-day, 
From  theseolVer  and  the  cruel  He  liath  plucked  the  spoil  away, — 
Yen,  He,  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the  faithful  three, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  His  handmaid  free ! 

Last  ni^ht  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my  prison  bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the  pale  gleam  of  stars. 
In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through  the  long  night-time. 
My  grated  window  whitened  with  autumn's  early  rime. 

Alone  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour  crept  by  ; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in,  and  sank  adown  the  sky ; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that  which  seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the  sea. 

All  night  I  sate  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on  the  morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me  in  my  sorrow, 
Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bargained  for  and  sold 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer  from  the  fold  ! 

Oh  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there,  the  shrinking  and  the  shame ; 
And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers  to  me  came  : 
"  Why  sitst  thou  thus  forlornly  1"  the  wicked  murmur  said, 
"  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth  thy  maiden  bed] 

"  Where  be  the  smiling  faces  and  voices  soft  and  sweet 
Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the  pleasant  street  1 
Where  be  the  youths,  whose  glances  the  summer  Sabbath  through 
Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's  pew  1 

'•  Why  sitst  thou  here,  Cas.sandra  1     Bethink  thee  with  what  mirth 
Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the  warm  bright  hearth ; 
How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble,  on  foreheads  white  and  fair, 
On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood  half  hid  in  golden  hair. 

"Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not  for  thee   kind  words  are 

spoken ; 
Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  Woods  by  laughing  boya  are  broken  ; 
No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap  are  laid. 
For  thee  no  flowers  of  autumn  the  youthflil  rustics  braid. 

"  0  weak,  deluded  maiden  !  by  crazy  fancies  led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to  tread  ; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching  pure  and  sound. 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired  and  sackcloth  bound. 

"  Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock  at  things  divine, 
Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread  and  wine. 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from  the  pillory  lame, 
Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorjing  in  their  shame. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  337 

"  And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee  !  a  sadly  toihng  slave. 
Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of  bondage  to  the  grave  ! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in  hopeless  thrall, 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  all !" 

Oh  ! — ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble  nature's  fears 
Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of  unavailing  tears, 
I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove  in  silent  prayer, 
To  feel — 0  Helper  of  the  weak  !  that  Thou  indeed  wert  there  ! 

I  tliought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Philippi's  cell. 
And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the  prison  shackles  fell. 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angel's  robe  of  white, 
And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to  sight. 


Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning,  again  the  sunshine  fell 
Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate  within  my  lonely  cell; 
The  hoar-frost  matted  on  the  wall,  and  upward  from  the  street 
Came  careless  laugh,  and  idle  word,  and  tread  of  passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was  open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriff's  side  up  the  long  street  I  passed ; 
I  lieard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but  dared  not  see, 
How  from  every  door  and  window  the  people  gazed  on  me. 


We  paused  at  length  where  at  my  feet  the  sunlit  waters  broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly  wall  of  rock  ; 
The  merchants'  ships  lay  idly  there  in  hard  clear  lines  on  high 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their  network  on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak-wrapped  and  grave  and  cold, 
And  grim  and  stout  sea-captain.s,  with  faces  bronzed  and  old, 
And  on  his  horse  with  Rawson,  his  cruel  clerk  at  hand, 
Sate  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler  of  the  land. 


But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit,  the  while  the  sheriff  read 
That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor  have  made. 
Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priesthood  bring 
No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offering. 

Tlicn  to  the  stout  .sea-captains  the  .slu'vilf  turning  said  : 
'•  Which  of  ye  worthy  .seamen  will  take  this  Quaker  maid? 
In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoca,  or  on  Virginia's  shore. 
Von  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price;  than  Indian  girl  oi-  Moor." 

P 


838  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Gi  im  uiul  silont  stooil  the  cnjitains ;  and  when  again  lie  cried 

"  Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen  !"  no  voice  or  sign  rei>lied  : 

But  I  lelt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and  kind  words  met  my  ear ; — 

'•  Got!  bless  thee  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle  girl  and  dear !' 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  od'my  heart — a  pitying  friend  was  nigh, 
1  felt  it  in  his  hard  rough  hand,  I  saw  it  in  his  eye ; 
And  when  again  the  sherill"  spake,  that  voice  so  kind  to  me 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring  of  the  sea 

'•  Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver — pack  with  coins  of  Spanish  gold 
From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  roomage  of  her  hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me  !  I  would  sooner  in  yon  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo  than  bear  this  child  away !" 

'■  Well  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on  their  cruel  laws  !" 

Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud,  the  people's  just  applause. 

"  Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of  old, 

Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for  silver  sold  7" 

I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott;  with  weapon  half-way  drawn, 
Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter  hate  and  scorn  ; 
Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle-rein,  and  turned  in  silence  back, 
And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode  murmuring  in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitterness  of  soul. 
Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and  crushed  his  parchment  roll ; 
"  Good  friends,"  he  said,  "  since  both  have  fled,  the  ruler  and  the  priest, 
Judge  ye  if  from  their  further  work  I  be  not  well  released." 

Loud  was  the  cheer,  which,  full  and  clear,  swept  round  the  silent  bay. 
As  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks  he  bade  me  go  my  way  ; 
For  H(;  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet  of  the  glen 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned  the  hearts  of  men. 

Oh,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed  changed  beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill  and  stream  and  woodland  lay. 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  v?aters  of  the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  !  to  Ilim  all  praises  be, 
Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  His  handmaid  free  ! 
All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the  mighty  are  afraid, 
Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the   maze  which  for  tiie  poor  is  laid ! 


I  add  the  opening  stanzas  of  an  equally  powerful  and  eloquent 
poem,  with  the  few  lines  of  explanation  prefixed  hy  the  author. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  389 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO   VIRGINIA. 

"Written  on.  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  citi- 
zens of  Norfolk  (Virginia),  in  reference  to  George  Latimer,  the 
alleged  fugitive  slave,  the  result  of  whose  case  in  Massachusetts 
will  probably  be  similar  to  that  of  the  negro,  Somerset,  in  Eng- 
land in  1772. 

The  blast  from  Freedom's  northern  hills  upon  its  southern  way 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massachusetts  Bay  : — 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle-bugle's  peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor  clang  of  horsemens'  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  highways  go — 

Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies  the  snow  ; 

And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports  upon  their  errands  far, 

A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but  none  are  spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia !  thy  stormy  words  and  high, 
Swell  harshly  on  the  southern  winds  which  melt  along  our  sky  ; 
Yet  not  one  brown  hard  hand  foregoes  its  honest  labor  here ; 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe  in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  that  lash  the  reefs  along  St.  George's  bank. 

Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white  and  dank  ; 

Through  storm  and  wave  and  blinding  mist  stout  are  the  hearts  which  man 

The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea-boats  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their  icy  forms 
Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining-lines,  or  wrestling  with  the  storms; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the  waves  they  roam, 
They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against  their  rocky  home. 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion  1    Hath  she  forgot  the  day 
When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the  Biiton's  steel  array  1 
How,  side  by  side  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Mas.sachusetts  men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout  Cornwallis  then  1 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses  spoke  out  from  Fanueil  Hall  1 
When  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pealing  on  each  breath 
Of  northern  winds  the  thrilling  sounds  of  "Liberty  or  Death  !" 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion  1    If  now  her  sons  have  i)roved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory,  false  to  the  faitli  they  loved ; 
If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  Its  Great  Charter  spurn. 
Must  ?(•('  of  Massachusetts  from  Truth  and  Duty  turn'!  _^ 


340  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

HV  hunt  your  boiulmcii  llying  iVmn  slavery's  hateful  hell — 
(hir  voices,  at  your  bicMiiig,  take  up  the  bloodhound's  yell — 
ir.  ^ullier  at  your  suiniuons  above  our  fathers'  graves, 
Froui  FR'edom's  holy  altar-honis  to  tear  your  wretched  slaves! 

Thank  God  !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massachusetts  bow, 

Tiie  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now ; 

Ureani  not  because  her  pilgrim  blood  moves  slow,  and  calm,  and  cool, 

She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sister's  slave  and  tool! 

All  that  a  Sister  State  should  be,  all  that  a  free  State  may, 
Heart,  hand  and  purse  we  profler,  as  in  our  early  day; 
But  that  one  dark  lothsome  burthen,  ye  must  stagger  with  alone. 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves  have  sown ! 

If  slavery  be  a  reproach,  and  too  just  a  reproach  it  is  to  tlie 
Southern  States,  surely  the  citizens  of  New  England  may  justly 
pride  themselves  upon  the  poetry  which  has  arisen  out  of  the  sin 
and  shame  of  their  brethren.  Time  will  inevitably  chase  away 
the  crime,  for  national  crimes  are  in  their  very  nature  transient, 
while  the  noble  efiusions  that  sprang  from  that  foul  source, 
whether  in  the  verse  of  the  poet,  or  the  speeches  of  the  orator, 
are  imperishable. 

Another  of  my  sins  of  omission  is  Mr.  Halleck,  a  poet  of  a  dif- 
ferent stamp,  with  less  of  earnestness  and  fire,  but  more  of  grace 
and  melody.  How  musical  are  these  stanzas  on  the  Music  of 
Nature  I 


Young  thoughts  have  music  in  them,  love 

And  happiness  their  tlieme; 
And  music  wanders  in  the  wind 

That  lulls  a  morning  dream. 
And  there  are  angel  voices  heard 

In  childhood's  frolic  hours. 
When  life  is  but  an  April  day 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers. 

There's  music  in  the  forest  leaves 

When  summer  winds  are  there, 
And  in  the  laugh  of  forest  girls 

That  braid  their  sunny  hair. 
The  first  wild  bird,  that  drinks  the  dew 

From  violets  of  the  spring, 
Has  music  in  his  voice,  and  in 

The  fluttering  of  his  wing. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  341 

There's  music  in  the  dash  of  waves 

When  the  swift  bark  cleaves  the  foam ; 
There's  music  heard  upon  her  deck 

The  mariner's  song  of  home. 
When  moon  and  starbeams  smiling  meet 

At  midnight  on  the  sea  — 


To-day  the  forest  leaves  are  green, 

They'll  wither  on  the  morrow  ; 
And  the  maiden's  laugh  be  changed  ere  long 

To  the  widow's  wail  of  sorrow. 
Come  with  the  winter  snows  and  ask 

Where  are  the  forest  birds'? 
The  answer  is  a  silent  one 

More  eloquent  than  words. 

The  moonlight  music  of  the  waves 

In  storms  is  heard  no  more, 
When  the  living  lightning  mocks  the  wreck 

At  midnight  on  the  shore. 


Still  better  than  these  verses  are  the  stanzas  on  the  death  of 
his  brother  poet  Drake  : 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee. 

Friend  of  my  better  days ; 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

None  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell  when  thou  wert  dying, 

From  eyes  unused  to  weep  ; 
And  long  where  thou  art  lying 

Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts  whose  truth  was  proven 

Like  thine  are  laid  in  earth, 
There  should  a  w-reath  be  woven 

To  tell  tlie  world  tlieir  worth  ; 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 

To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 
Who  .shared  tliy  Joy  and  sorrow, 

Whose  weal  and  woe  were  tliine, — • 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 
Around  tliy  faded  brow ; 


342  KKCOLLKCTIONS     OF 

But  I'vt'  in  vain  essayed  it, 
And  (Vel  I  can  not  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee 
Nor  thoiiglits  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


This  is  a  true  and  manly  record*  of  a  true  and  manly  friend- 
ship. There  is  no  doubting  the  sorrow,  honorable  alike  to  the 
Departed  and  the  Survivor.     May  he  be  so  loved  and  so  mourned  I 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  343 


XXVII. 

VOLUMINOUS    AUTHORS. 

hargrave's  state  trials. 

All  my  life  long  I  have  delighted  in  voluminous  works  ;  in 
other  words,  I  have  delighted  in  that  sort  of  detail  which  permits 
so  intimate  a  familiarity  vv'ith  the  subjects  of  which  it  treats. 
This  fancy  of  mine  seems  most  opposed  to  the  spirit  of  an  age 
fertile  in  abridgments  and  selections.  And  yet  my  taste  is 
hardly,  perhaps,  so  singular  as  it  seems  :  witness  the  six  volume 
biographies  of  Scott  and  Southey,  which  every  body  wishes  as 
long  again  as  they  are  ;  witness  the  voluminous  hi^•tories  of  sin- 
gle events — the  Conquest  of  Peru  and  of  Mexico,  by  Mr.  Prescott, 
the  French  Revolution  of  M.  Thiers,  the  Girondins  of  M.  de  La- 
martine.  Even  the  most  successful  writers  of  modern  fiction 
have  found  the  magical  effects  of  bringing  the  public  into  inti- 
macy with  their  heroes.  Hence  Mr.  Cooper  (dead  I  regret  to 
say,  but  yet  imperishably  alive  in  his  graphic  novels),  extended 
to  fifteen  volumes  the  adventures  of  Leather-Stocking,  until  every 
reader  offered  his  hand  to  greet  the  honest  backwoodsman  as  if 
he  had  been  a  daily  visitor  ;  and  Balzac,  a  still  greater  artist, 
brought  the  same  dramatis  personce,  the  same  set  of  walking 
ladies  and  gentlemen  to  fill  up  the  background  of  his  scenes  of 
the  "  Life  of  Paris  and  of  the  Provinces,"  with  an  illusion  so  per- 
fect and  so  masterly,  that  I  myself,  who  ought  to  have  some  ac- 
quaintance with  the  artifices  of  story-telling,  was  so  completely 
deceived  as  to  inquire  by  letter  of  the  friend  who  had  introduced 
me  to  those  remarkable  books,  whether  the  Horace  Bianchon, 
whom  I  had  just  found  consulted  for  the  twentieth  time  in  some 
grave  malady,  were  a  make-believe  p!;ysician,  or  a  real  living 
man  :  to  which  my  friend,  herself  no  novice  in  this  sort  of  decep- 
tion, replied  that  he  was  certainly  a  fictitious  personage,  for  that 
she  had  written  two  years  ago  to  Paris  to  ask  the  same  question. 


3-1-4  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Even  in  this  world  of  Beauties,  and  of"  Extracts,  I  do  not  be- 
lieve myself  quite  alone  in  my  love  of  the  elaborate  and  the  mi- 
nute ;  and  yet  1  doubt  if  many  people  conteini)late  very  loufj  very 
big  books  with  the  sense  of  coming  enjoyment  which  such  a  pros- 
pect gives  me  ;  and  lew  shrink,  as  I  do,  with  aversion  and  horror 
from  that  invention  of  the  enemy — an  Abridgment.  I  never 
shall  forget  the  shock  I  experienced  in  seeing  Bruce,  that  oppro- 
brium of  an  unbelieving  age,  that  great  and  graphic  traveler, 
whose  eight  or  nine  goodly  volumes  took  such  possession  of  me, 
that  1  named  a  whole  colony  of  bantams  after  his  Abyssinian 
princes  and  princesses,  calling  a  little  golden  strutter  of  a  cock 
after  that  arch-tyrant  the  Ras  Michael,  and  a  speckled  hen,  the 
beauty  of  the  poultry-yard,  Ozoro  Esther,  in  honor  of  the  Ras's 
favorite  wife — I  never  felt  greater  disgust  than  at  seeing  this 
magnificent  work  cut  down  to  a  thick,  dumpy  volume,  seven 
inches  by  five  ;  except,  perhaps,  when  I  happened  to  light  upon 
another  pet  book — Drink  water's  "  Siege  of  Gibraltar,"  where  I 
had  first  learned  to  tremble  at  the  grim  realities  of  war,  had 
watched  day  by  day  the  firing  of  the  red-hot  balls,  had  groped 
my  way  through  the  galleries,  and  taken  refuge  in  the  casemates, 
degraded  from  the  fair  proportions  of  a  goodly  quarto,  into  the 
thin  and  meager  pamphlet  of  a  lending  library,  losing  a  portion 
of  its  life-like  truth  with  every  page  that  was  cut  away. 

Besides  books  long  in  themselves,  I  love  large  collections  of 
works,  of  the  same  class.  Shakspeare  I  had  always  known,  of 
course.  But  what  joy  it  was  to  wander  at  will  through  the  vel- 
lum bound  folio  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  then  to  diverge 
to  Ben  Jonson,  to  Massinger,  to  Ford,  to  Webster,  to  the  count- 
less riches  of  Dodsley's  Old  Plays  I  How  pleasant  to  get  together 
books  united  only  by  a  common  subject,  collections  of  English 
ballads,  Percy,  Weber,  Heber,  E-itson,  Scott,  the  Chronicles  of 
Froissart  and  de  Joinville,  of  Hollinshed  and  of  Hall,  the  endless 
Memoirs  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth's  day,  or  the  still  more  endless 
Journals  and  Diaries,  whether  by  prince  or  valet,  whether  false 
or  true,  that  show  us  vividly  as  in  life  him  whom  Beranger  has 
called  "  the  great  poet  of  modern  times,"  the  marvelous  Napo- 
leon ! 

Or  again,  books  by  tlie  same  author  :  the  novels  of  Richard- 
son ;  the  letters  of  Walpole — will  they  ever  come  to  an  end  ?  I 
hope  not.      The  majestic  verse  and  graceful  prose  of  Dryden, 


A     LITEKAEY     LIFE.  345 

whose  prefaces  contain  some  of  our  earliest  criticism  and  some  of 
our  best  ;  the  wisdom  of  Bacon  ;  the  wit  of  Swift ;  the  easy  truth 
of  Jane  Austen  ;  the  matchless  charm  of  Scott.  I  have  heard 
of  Prynne  and  Defoe  more  than  would  break  down  a  writing- 
table,  and  about  the  French  Revolution  as  much  as  would  1111  a 
room. 

Nor  do  I  perceive  much  change  in  this  devouring  passion. 
Nearly  forty  years  ago,  I  had  occasion  to  acquire  as  much  knowl- 
edge as  I  could  on  the  subject  of  the  Commonwealth,  and  it  was 
a  labor  of  love.  From  the  lives  of  Hutchinson  and  Fairfax,  so 
charmingly  told  by  their  loving  wives,  and  the  exciting  histories 
of  Burnet  and  Clarendon  to  the  dullest  State  Papers  of  the  Record 
Office,  my  ravenous  appetite  "  had  stomach  for  them  all."  Four 
winters  since,  I  was  reading  for  my  own  pleasure,  Lucas  Mon- 
signy's  "Life  of  Mirabeau."  It  was  a  hired  book,  a  Brussels 
edition,  in  ten  volumes,  from  Mr.  Rolandi's  excellent  Foreign  Li- 
brary in  Berners  Street,  and  I  had  only  the  first  four.  Full  of 
Mirabeau,  of  that  strange  creature  his  father,  and  that  little  less 
remarkable  personage  the  Bailli,  his  uncle,  worse  than  the  vain, 
tyrannical  father  in  my  mind,  because  he  had  a  perception  of  the 
stupendous  intellect  and  noble  nature  with  which  they  were  deal- 
ing, and  yet  submitted  in  all  things  to  that  heartless  coxcomb,  the 
Marquis  ;  full  of  these  people,  I  could  not  think  of  waiting  until 
I  had  written  to  London,  I  should  never  have  closed  my  eyes  ;  so 
I  ran  off  to  a  most  kind  neighbor,  whose  rich  library  and  constant 
indulgence  afforded  me  some  chance  of  supplying  this  pressing 
want.  "Vie  de  Mirabeau,  par  son  fils  adoptif?"  said  the  fair 
daughter,  whom  1  encountered  in  the  park.  "  Yes,"  answered  I, 
with  a  thousand  thanks  :  "  that  life  of  Mirabeau,  if  Sir  Henry 
happen  to  have  it.  H  not,  any  lite,  any  book,  by  or  about  hi  in, 
to  serve  until  I  can  get  the  true  thing  !"  And  so  I  went  my 
way  I  In  a  few  hours,  a  horse  and  cart  arrived  at  my  door,  con- 
taining a  great  trunk,  and  a  note  with  a  key  inclosed.  And  this 
precious  trunk  was  full  of  Mirabeau  :  orations,  letters,  lives  ;  all 
of  his  own  writing,  that  a  woman  might  fitly  read,  and  almost 
all  that  had  been  written  about  him,  i'rom  Dumont's  cold  unwor- 
thy book  to  the  fine  iLudc  of  Victor  Hugo.  I  do  not  think  I  even 
opened  a  newspaper  until  I  had  gone  through  the  whole  collec- 
tion. 

One  winter  I  reveled  in  all  the  lore  I  could  procure  regarding 


346  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

boasts;,  ami  birds,  and  insects,  and  reptiles  ;  another  1  solaced 
niyscll  liv  a  course  of  topography,  ponderous  county  histories 
which  are  called  so  dull  and  are  often  so  amusing,  full  of  odd  bits 
of  legeiul  and  story  and  traits  of  manners  that  one  liuds  nowhere 
else  ;  and  once  1  beguiled  the  long  Christmas  evenings  by  look- 
ing through  the  whole  series  of  the  "  Monthly  Review,"  reading 
the  coteniporary  judgments  on  Hume  and  Robertson,  on  Gibbon 
and  Johnson,  on  Fielding  and  Smollett,  on  Gray  and  Mason,  on 
Goldsmith  and  Sterne,  and  comparing  the  criticism  of  the  day 
with  the  abiding  verdict  of  posterity.  Any  body  not  willing  to 
encounter  the  trouble  of  turning  over  above  a  hundred  heavy  vol- 
imies  may  procure  for  himself  a  recreation  nearly  analogous  by 
reading  the  correspondence  which  Mr.  Mitford  has  just  so  ably 
edited  between  the  before-mentioned  Horace  Walpole  and  Mason  ; 
and  yet  that  is  hardly  a  fair  example.  Prince  of  letter- writers  as 
Walpole  was,  created  as  it  seems  for  nothing  else  but  to  chron- 
icle with  the  adroitest  of  touches  the  gossip  of  the  day,  it  is  some- 
thing wonderful  how  seldom  even  by  accident  he  shows  the  slight- 
est perception  of  the  high,  the  good,  or  the  true.  There  is  hardly 
a  great  name  of  his  own  time  at  which  he  does  not  sneer.  In 
one  passage  he  ignores  them  in  a  body,  and  says,  "  Dr.  Johnson 
and  the  crew  whose  names  I  forget,"  or  words  to  that  effect.  He 
classes  Garth  as  a  poet  with  Milton  ;  chooses  Goldsmith  as  the 
object  of  his  supreme  contempt,  and  even  among  his  own  cor- 
respondents he  had  quarreled  with  Gray  and  was  about  to  quar- 
rel with  Mason.  He  can  hardly  be  said  to  reflect  cotemporary 
opinion.  Perhaps  we  of  the  last  generation  have  seen  something 
more  nearly  approaching  it  in  the  judgment  of  the  "  Quarterly" 
upon  Keats,  and  of  the  "Edinburgh  Review"  upon  Wordsworth. 
Time  is  the  one  great  critic. 

Of  all  collected  works  those  that  I  liked  best,  better  than  the 
poets  from  Chaucer  to  Tennyson,  better  than  the  dramatists  from 
Shakspeare  to  Talfourd,  were  those  most  real  and  most  exciting 
of  all  dramas  called  trials.  I  began  with  the  French  collections, 
collections  consisting  of  very  many  small  volumes,  Lilliputian 
duodecimos,  some  of  which  are  so  infinitely  curious  ;  and  having 
fairly  exhausted  them,  I  betook  myself  to  the  Brobdignagian  fo- 
lios of  "  Hargrave's  State  Trials."  What  between  the  size  of  the 
books  and  my  own  short-sightedness,  I  well  remember  that  I  was 
compelled  to  move  the  reading-desk  twice  in  the  course  of  every 


A    LITEKARY     LIFE.  347 

double-columned  page.  Little  did  I  care  lor  that,  enchanted  as 
I  was  by  the  development,  now  of  story,  now  of  character,  now 
of  eloquence,  and  always  of  form — the  question  and  answer  so 
well  calculated  to  convey  narrative  and  to  elicit  truth. 

With  two  or  three  obvious  exceptions,  I  went  through  the 
whole  collection,  most  interested  perhaps  by  those  contained  in 
the  long  reign  of  Charles  II.,  a  time  when  the  prisons,  the  courts 
of  justice,  and  the  scafiblds  were  hardly  ever  free  from  illus- 
trious victims,  martyrs  to  liberty  as  in  the  case  of  the  regicides 
and  of  Russell  and  his  companions,  or  for  their  ancient  faith 
as  in  the  equally  iniquitous  condemnations  of  the  so-called  Popish 
Plot. 

Among  these  trials  of  the  days  of  Charles  II.,  two  have  always 
seemed  to  me  the  perfection  of  judicial  comedy  and  tragedy. 

The  former  relates  to  a  man  about  whom  much  has  been  writ- 
ten lately  ;  and  who  certainly,  although  no  doubt  he  had  faults 
in  plenty,  was  puffed  up  with  vanity  as  your  professors  of  human- 
ity seldom  fail  to  be,  and  took  no  small  delight  in  courts  and 
princes,  as  was  to  be  expected  from  the  leader  of  a  sect  whose 
chief  tenet  was  an  ostentatious  renunciation  of  the  pomps  and 
vanities  of  the  world — must  be  admitted  to  have  had  his  merits 
also — among  which  I  shall  always  include  the  manner  in  which 
he  turned  the  Mayor  and  Mr.  Recorder  round  his  fingers.  I  am 
talking  of  William  Peun,  and  the  process  in  question  is  the  trial 
of  William  Penn  and  William  Mead  for  a  tumultuous  assembly, 
22d  Charles  II.  (1670),  before  the  Mayor,  Recorder,  and  divers 
Aldermen  of  the  Old  Bailey. 

I  do  not  know  any  cause  pleasanter  to  read  than  this,  because 
from  first  to  last  the  parties  with  whom  our  sympathies  go  have 
the  best  not  only  of  the  reasoning  but  of  the  result ;  such  arrant 
blunderers  were  the  whole  of  the  court.  To  begin  at  the  begin- 
ning : 

Clerk. — Bring  William  Penn  and  William  Mead  to  the  bar. 

Mayor. — tSirrah  I  Who  bid  you  put  oil' their  hats  ?  Put  on 
their  hats  again. 

Whereupon  one  of  the  officers  putting  the  prisoners'  hats  upon 
their  heads,  pursuant  to  the  orders  of  the  (Jourt,  brought  them  to 
the  bar. 

Recorder. — Do  you  know  Avherc  you  are  ? 

Penn. — Yes. 


;US  KKCO  M.  KCr  IONS     OK 

RfV(irdn\ — l)o  you  nol  know  il  is  tlic  Iviuji's  Courl  ? 

Pt/i/t. — 1  know  it  to  be  a  Court,  and  1  suppose  it  to  bo  the 
Kinji's  Court. 

licctirdcr. — Do  you  not  know  there  is  a  respect  due  to  the 
Court  ? 

l\nn. — Yes. 

Recorder. — Why  do  you  not  pay  it  then  ? 

Pcnn. — I  do  so. 

Recorder. — Why  do  you  not  pull  off  your  hat,  then  ? 

Pen7i. — Because  1  do  not  believe  that  to  be  any  respect. 

Recorder. — Weil,  the  Court  sets  Ibrty  marks  apiece  upon  your 
heads,  as  a  fine  for  your  contempt  of  Court. 

Penn. — I  desire  it  might  be  observed,  that  vv^e  came  into  the 
Court  vk'ith  our  hats  off  (that  is,  taken  off)  and  if  they  have  been 
put  on  since,  it  was  by  order  from  the  bench,  and  therefore  not 
we  but  the  bench  should  be  fined. 

Then  Penn,  finding  the  advantage  he  had  got,  began  to  ask 
questions  of  the  Recorder,  much  to  the  discomposure  of  that  learn- 
ed otficial.     Here  is  a  sample  : 

Recorder. — Sir,  you  are  a  troublesome  fellow,  and  it  is  not  for 
the  honor  of  the  Court  to  sufl'er  you  to  go  on. 

Penn. — I  have  asked  but  one  question,  and  you  have  not 
answered  me,  though  the  right  and  privilege  of  every  Englishman 
be  concerned  in  it. 

Recorder. — If  I  should  sufier  you  to  ask  questions  till  to-morrow 
morning,  you  would  be  never  the  wiser. 

Penn. — That  is  according  as  the  answers  be. 

Finally,  although  the  real  ofiense  (that  of  preaching  in  Gi'ace- 
church  Street)  was,  I  suppose,  pretty  clearly  established,  it  was 
Ibund  absolutely  impossible  to  get  the  jury  to  convict.  They 
brought  in  a  temporizing  and  modified  verdict,  which  deprived 
tlie  Court  of  the  few  wits  with  whicli  they  seem  to  have  been 
originally  gifted.  The  Mayor  scolded,  the  Recorder  stormed. 
The  jury  were  locked  up,  sent  back;  sent  back  again,  locked  up 
again  for  something  like  two  days  ;  and  must  have  been  made  of 
very  stubborn  stuff  to  have  resisted  the  starvation.  They  did  re- 
sist, however.  The  more  they  were  pressed,  the  more  favorable 
the  verdict  became,  and  the  bench  were  at  last  compelled  to 
accept  a  complete  and  triumphant  acquittal. 

The  tragedy  relates  to  a  far  greater  man,  to  that  great  patriot, 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  849 

Algernon  Sydney,  who,  in  declining  years,  of  feeble  health,  and 
never,  as  he  himself  asserted,  having  been  present  at  a  trial,  or 
read  a  law-book  in  his  life,  yet  fought  this  losing  battle  so  bravely, 
so  manfully,  with  so  much  presence  of  mind,  learning  and  elo- 
quence, that  the  pain  of  reading  of  such  wrongs  is  almost  lost  in 
admiration  of  the  sufferer,  and  in  envy  of  such  a  death. 

Every  body  knows  the  story  of  this  frightful  injustice  :  that  he 
was  convicted  upon  the  heai'say  evidence  of  the  infamous  Lord 
Howard  and  the  no  less  infamous  West,  contradicted,  as  that  evi- 
dence was,  out  of  their  own  mouths,  by  a  host  of  honorable  wit- 
nesses, and  only  bolstered  up  by  a  manuscript  book  written 
twenty  years  before,  and  left  openly  upon  his  writing-table. 

Every  body  knows,  too,  his  famous  answer  to  Jefiries  at  the 
conclusion  of  his  trial : 

Lord  Chief- Justice. — I  pray  God  work  in  you  a  temper  fit  to 
go  into  the  other  world,  for  I  see  you  are  unfit  for  this. 

Sydney. — My  Lord,  feel  my  pulse  (holding  out  his  hand),  and 
see  if  I  am  disordered.  I  bless  God  I  never  was  in  better  temper 
than  I  am  now. 

Then  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower  carried  back  his  prisoner. 

This  last  act  of  his  life  is  worthy  of  an  anecdote  related  by  Mr. 
Brand  HoUis  of  his  earlier  days  : 

"  Mr.  Sydney,  during  his  stay  in  France,  being  one  day  hunting 
with  the  French  King,  and  mounted  on  a  fine  English  horse,  the 
form  and  spirit  of  which  caught  the  King's  eye,  received  a  message 
that  he  would  be  pleased  to  oblige  the  King  with  his  horse  at  his 
own  price.  He  answered  that  he  did  not  choose  to  part  with 
him.  The  King  determined  to  have  no  denial,  and  gave  orders 
to  tender  him  money  or  to  seize  the  horse  ;  which  being  made 
known  to  Mr.  Sydney,  he  instantly  took  a  pistol  and  shot  him, 
saying  :  '  That  his  horse  was  born  a  free  creature,  had  served  a 
free  man,  and  should  not  be  mastered  by  a  King  of  slaves.'  "* 

Besides  the  cases  of  high  treason,  of  conspiracy,  and  of  misde- 
meanor, public  crimes,  wliich  may  be  understood  as  state  trials  in 
the  strictest  sense  of  the  word,  and  which  have  all  more  or  less 
of  historical  interest,  this  collection  includes  a  vast  variety  of  re- 
markable causes,  robbery,  forgery,  murder,  ofTenses  against  indi- 
viduals, which  have  frequently,  the  more  perhaps  because  they 

*  4to.  Edition  (1772)  of  Algernon  Sydiie.y'.s  works. 


350  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

uro  coiitinoil  within  the  limits  of  private  lite,  tlie  sort  of  dramatic 
etleet,  of  iiioidenl  and  of  situation,  which  belongs  properly  to  ro- 
mance. 

Among  these  I  know  none  more  striking,  from  the  near  con- 
nection of  the  principal  actors,  the  strangeness  of  the  scene,  the 
boldness  of  the  crime,  and  its  most  providential  discovery,  than 
the  trial  (in  1741)  of  Samuel  Goodere,  Captain  of  H.M.S.  '  Ruby,' 
for  the  murder  of  his  brother.  Sir  John  Dinely  Goodere,  on  board 
his  own  man-of-war,  brought  to  light  by  the  cooper's  wife,  who 
happened  accidentally  to  be  sleeping  on  board,  and  by  her  husband, 
who  had  the  moral  courage  to  apprehend  the  assassin  in  his  very 
cabin. 

The  fullness  and  minuteness  of  the  evidence,  the  gradations  by 
■which  ever}'  thought  and  plan  of  the  fratricide  are  laid  bare  by 
the  different  witnesses,  the  reiteration  by  which  one  detail  is 
linked  to  another,  from  the  first  attempt  to  effect  a  pretended  rec- 
onciliation with  the  destined  victim,  the  hurrying  him  from  the 
shore  to  the  boat,  the  forcing  him  from  the  boat  to  the  vessel,  and 
the  barring  him  in  the  purser's  cabin,  to  the  midnight  strangula- 
tion, produce  an  impression  of  truth  and  reality  almost  equal  to 
that  of  having  been  personally  present  at  the  horrid  catastrophe. 

The  very  minuteness  and  repetition,  w^hich  make  so  great  a 
part  of  the  charm,  forbid  any  attempt  to  transcribe  the  evidence, 
but  an  extract  from  the  opening  S23eech  of  the  counsel  will  con- 
vey better  than  any  words  of  mine  can  do,  the  story  of  this  do- 
mestic tragedy.  One  of  the  subordinate  assassins  was  tried  with 
Captain  Goodere,  and  another  afterward,  and  it  is  singular  that 
the  first  pair  of  culprits  both  labored  under  the  infirmity  of  deaf- 
ness. 

"  Gentlemen,  as  I  am  instructed,  there  had  been  a  long  and 
very  unhappy  difference  between  the  deceased  Sir  John  and  his 
brother,  the  prisoner,  owing  to  various  occasions ;  and  among 
others,  to  Sir  John's  having  cut  off  the  entail  of  a  large  estate  in 
Worcestershire,  to  which  Mr.  Goodere  as  the  next  remainder 
man  would  have  otherwise  stood  entitled,  in  default  of  issue  of 
Sir  John.  Gentlemen,  this  misunderstanding  by  degrees  grew 
to  an  inveterate  grudge  and  hatred  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Goodere  ; 
•which  was  so  rooted  in  his  heart,  that  it  at  length  worked  him 
into  a  formed  design  of  destroying  his  brother  and  making  away 
with  him  at  all  hazards  and  events.     The  great  difficulty  was 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  351 

how  to  get  Sir  John  into  his  power,  for  he  generally  traveled 
armed  ;  nor  was  it  easy  to  get  together  a  set  of  fellows  so  base 
and  desperate  as  to  join  with  him  in  the  carrying  off  his  brother. 
But,  mifortunately  for  the  deceased,  Mr.  Goodere  having  been 
recently  honored  by  his  Majesty  with  the  command  of  the  'Ruby,' 
man-of-war,  happened,  in  January  last,  to  be  stationed  in  King's- 
road  (as  much  within  the  county  of  Bristol  as  this  town-hall, 
where  we  are  sitting).  Sir  John,  who  was  advanced  in  years, 
and  very  ailing,  had,  it  seems,  been  advi-ed  to  come  to  Bath  for 
the  recovery  of  his  health  ;  and  having  occasion  to  transact  af- 
fairs of  consequence  at  Bristol  with  Mr.  Josiah  Smith,  Mr.  Good- 
ere took  this  opportunity  of  laying  a  snare  for  his  brother's  life, 
as  you  will  find  by  the  event.  He  applies  to  Mr.  Smith  ;  and 
taking  notice  to  him  of  the  misunderstanding  between  himself 
and  his  brother,  pretends  a  sincere  desire  of  reconciliation,  and 
desires  Mr.  Smith,  if  possible,  to  make  up  the  breach  between 
them  ;  and  Mr.  Smith  promised  to  do  his  utmost  toward  effecting 
a  reconciliation,  and  was  as  good  as  his  word  ;  for,  by  his  interest 
and  persuasions,  he  at  length  prevailed  upon  Sir  John  to  see  and 
be  reconciled  to  his  brother  ;  and  Sir  John  having  appointed 
Tuesday,  the  13th  of  January  last,  in  the  morning,  for  calling  on 
Mr.  Smith,  at  his  house  in  College  Green,  Mr.  Smith  soon  made 
his  bi"other,  Mr.  Goodere,  acquainted  therewith  ;  and  no  sooner 
was  he  informed  of  it,  but  he  began  to  take  his  measures  for  the 
executing  his  wicked  schemes  against  his  brother's  life  :  for  on 
Monday  (the  day  before  Sir  John  was  to  be  at  Mr.  Smith's),  Mr. 
Goodere,  with  the  other  prisoner,  Mahony  (his  inseparable  agent 
and  companion  in  every  stage  of  this  fatal  business),  went  to- 
gether to  the  '  White  Hart,'  an  ale-house,  near  the  foot  of  the 
College  Green,  in  view  of  and  almost  opposite  to  Mr.  Smith's,  in 
order  to  see  if  it  was  a  fit  place  for  their  desperate  purpose  ;  and 
finding  it  to  be  so,  Mr.  (roodere  commended  the  pleasantness  of 
the  closet  over  the  porch,  and  said  he  would  come  and  breakfast 
there  the  next  day.  And  accordingly,  the  next  morning  (which 
was  Tuesday,  the  13th),  Mr.  Goodere,  with  his  friend,  Mahony, 
and  a  gang  of  fellows  belonging  to  the  privateer  called  the  '  Ver- 
non,' whom  they  had  hired  to  assist  them  in  the  waylaying  and 
seizing  of  Sir  John,  came  to  the  '  White  Hart ;'  when,  having 
ordered  they  should  have  what  they  would  call  for,  he  went  him- 
self to  breakfast  in  the  closet  over  the  porch,  from  whence  he  had 


852  K  K  C  e)  L  L  E  C  T  1  O  N  S    OF 

a  iuU  view  of  Mr.  Smith's  house,  while  the  others  posted  tliem- 
solves  below,  on  the  lookout  for  Sir  John  ;  and  it  was  not  long 
before  he  came  on  horseback  to  Mr.  Smith's  ;  but  his  stay  was 
A'ery  short,  being  obliged  to  go  to  Bath  :  however,  he  promised 
Mr.  Smith  to  be  in  Bristol  again  by  the  Saturday  following.  He 
was  seen  from  the  '  White  Hart'  by  Mr.  Goodere  and  his  spies 
upon  the  watch ;  but  having  a  servant,  and  riding  with  pistols, 
they  did  not  think  proper  to  attempt  the  seizing  of  him  then  ; 
but  as  he  rode  down  the  hill,  by  St.  Augustine's  Back,  Mr.  Goodere 
called  out  to  Mahony,  in  these  words  :  '  Look  to  him  well,  Ma- 
hony,  and  watch  him  ;  but  don't  touch  him  now.'  And,  in  fact, 
Gentlemen,  the  prisouers  and  their  companions  followed  and 
watched  Sir  John  a  considerable  way.  Afterward,  Mr.  Smith 
acquainted  the  prisoner,  Goodere,  that  his  brother  was  to  be  with 
him  on  the  Sunday  following  ;  and  little  thinking  that  an  inter- 
view betwixt  tA\o  brothers  could  be  of  fatal  tendency,  advised 
him  to  be  in  the  way,  that  he  might  bring  them  together :  which 
advice  the  prisoner  observed  with  but  too  great  punctuality,  tak- 
ing care  in  the  interim  to  lay  such  a  train,  that  it  should  be 
hardly  possible  for  his  brother  to  escape  falling  into  his  hands. 
He  ordered  the  man-of-war's  barge  to  be  sent  up  for  him  on  the 
Sunday  ;  accordingly,  it  came  up  between  two  and  three  that 
afternoon  ;  of  which  Mr.  Goodere  being  informed  by  one  Wil- 
liams, a  midshipman,  whom  he  had  ordered  up  in  it,  he  inquired 
of  Williams  if  he  knew  the  river,  and  the  brick-kilns,  going  down 
it  ?  And  Williams  telling  him  he  did,  Mr.  Goodere  ordered 
him  to  get  all  the  boat's  crew  together,  and  be  sure  to  place  the 
barge  at  the  brick-kilns,  and  leave  but  two  or  three  hands  to 
look  after  the  barge,  and  bring  all  the  rest  of  the  men  to  the 
'  White  Hart'  ale-house,  and  wait  for  him  there.  Accordingly, 
Gentlemen,  Williams  and  most  of  the  bargemen  came  to  the 
place  of  rendezvous  at  the  '  White  Hart,'  where  Mahony,  with 
several  of  the  privateer's  men  (I  believe  all  or  part  of  the  same 
gang  that  had  been  there  on  the  watch  the  Tuesday  before), 
were  also  met,  by  Mr.  Goodere's  orders,  to  waylay  and  seize  Sir 
John ;  and  stood  at  the  window,  on  the  lookout,  in  order  to 
watch  his  coming  out  of  Mr.  Smith's. 

Thus  the  ambuscade  being  laid,  the  prisoner,  Mr.  Goodere, 
goes  to  Mr.  Smith's  about  three  in  the  afternoon,  the  hour  at 
which  Sir  John  had  appointed  to  be  there.     He  went  directly 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  353 

toward  his  brother,  Sir  John,  and  kissed  him  (what  kind  of  kiss 
it  was,  will  best  appear  in  the  sequel),  and  observed  to  him,  with 
an  outward  show  of  satisfaction,  that  he  looked  in  better  health 
than  he  had  formerly  done.  Mr.  Smith  was  so  good  as  to  drink 
friendship  and  reconciliation  between  the  two  brothers.  Mr. 
Goodere  pledged  it  in  a  glass  of  wine,  which  he  drank  to  his 
brother,  Sir  John,  who,  being  under  a  regimen,  offered  to  pledge 
him  in  water  ;  little  thinking  his  brother  designed  to  end  their 
differences  by  putting  an  end  to  his  life.  But  that.  Gentlemen, 
you'll  soon  see,  was  the  sole  end  he  had  in  view  ;  for  Sir  John,  in 
about  half  an  hour,  taking  his  leave,  Mr.  Goodere  was  following 
him.  Mr.  Smith  stopped  Mr.  Goodere,  saying,  '  I  think  I  have 
done  great  things  for  you.'  Says  Mr.  Goodere,  '  By  heaven  !  this 
won't  do  ;'  and  immediately  followed  his  brother  ;  and  meeting 
some  of  the  sailors  he  had  posted  at  the  '  White  Hart,'  says  to 
them,  '  Is  he  ready?'  and  being  answered  '  Yes,'  he  bade  them 
make  haste.  Mahony  and  the  other  fellows,  who  were  on  the 
lookout  at  the  '  White  Hart,'  seeing  Sir  John  go  down  St.  Augus- 
tine's Back,  immediately  rushed  out,  and  (as  they  had  been 
ordered  by  Mr.  Goodere)  seized  Sir  John  as  their  prisoner.  Just 
then,  Mr.  Goodere  himself  was  come  up,  and  had  joined  his  com- 
panions, and  showed  himself  their  ringleader  ;  for,  according  to 
my  instructions,  he  gave  them  positive  orders  to  carry  Sir  John 
on  board  the  barge  ;  and  they  but  too  exactly  obeyed  the  word 
of  command.  They  hurried  on  Sir  John  with  the  utmost  violence 
and  precipitation,  forcing  him  along,  and  even  striking  him  in  the 
presence  of  his  brother  ;  and,  as  the  Romans  used  to  do  their 
malefactors,  dragged  him  through  the  public  way.  The  poor  un- 
fortunate creature  made  repeated  outcries  of  murder — that  he 
was  ruined  and  undone,  for  his  brother  was  going  to  take  away 
his  life.  He  made  what  resistance  he  could — called  aloud  for 
help  ;  but  all  was  to  no  purpose.  Several  persons,  indeed,  followed 
them,  and  asked  what  was  the  matter  ?  But  they  were  answered 
by  Mr.  Goodere  and  his  associates,  that  the  person  they  were 
hauling  along  was  a  murderer — had  killed  a  man,  and  wa^  going 
to  be  tried  for  his  life.  The  most  of  this  ruffianly  crew,  being 
arrned  with  bludgeons  and  truncheons,  obliged  the  pe<)])le  who 
came  about  to  keep  off",  holding  up  their  sticks  at  lliem,  and 
threatening  to  knock  them  down.  Gentlemen,  when  they  had 
thus  forced  Sir  John  toward  the  end  of  the  rope- walk,  Mr.  Goodere 


Soi  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

(wlu)  all  aloiiir  bine  them  company,  and  animated  them  as  they 
passed  along)  bade  them  make  more  dispatch,  and  mend  their 
pace.  Accordingly,  they  took  up  Sir  John,  and  carried  him  by 
main  force  a  considerable  way,  then  let  him  down  again,  and 
pushed  and  hauled  him  along,  until  they  had  got  near  to  the  slip 
opposite  the  '  King's  Head.'  Sir  John  cried  out, '  Save  me  !  save 
me  I  tor  they  are  going  to  murder  me !'  There  the  barge  came 
up  ;  and  the  prisoner,  Mr.  Goodere,  had  his  brother  forced  into 
the  barge,  and  with  Mahony  and  the  rest  went  also  into  the  barge. 
Sir  John  then  called  out,  '  For  God's  sake,  run  to  Mr.  Smith,  and 
tell  him  I  am  about  to  be  murdered,  or  I  am  an  undone  man.' 
And  crying  out  that  his  name  was  Dinely,  Mr.  Goodere  stopped 
his  mouth  with  his  hand  to  prevent  his  telling  his  other  name. 
And  though  Sir  John  was  in  an  ill  state  of  health,  yet  his  hard- 
hearted brother  forcibly  took  his  cloak  from  off  his  back,  and  put 
it  on  himself  And  having  thus  got  him  into  his  power,  he 
ordered  the  men  to  row  off;  telling  his  brother,  that  now  he  had 
got  him  into  his  custody,  he  would  take  care  of  him,  and  prevent 
his  making  away  with  his  estate.  But,  Gentlemen,  in  fact  so 
little  did  he  think  himself  concerned  with  what  Sir  John  did  with 
the  estate,  that  he  was  of  opinion  no  act  of  Sir  John's  could  affect 
it  longer  than  his  own  life,  and  that  it  must  necessarily  devolve 
to  him,  as  the  next  in  remainder,  on  his  brother's  dying  without 
issue.  And  this,  Gentlemen,  he  declared  to  Mr.  Smith  but  a  few 
days  before  ;  and  indeed  his  brother  at  once  saw  what  kind  of 
prevention  it  was  he  meant.  '  I  know,'  says  he  to  Mr.  Goodere, 
soon  after  his  being  forced  into  the  barge,  '  you  intend  to  murder 
me  this  night,  and  therefore  you  may  as  well  do  it  now  as  carry 
me  down.'  Poor  gentleman  !  his  heart  misgave  him,  that  the 
design  of  this  base  and  daring  outrage  was  to  make  the  ship  his 
prison,  one  of  the  cabins  his  slaughter-house,  and  the  sea  his 
grave  ;  and  therefore  he  made  it  his  choice  to  be  thrown  over- 
board in  the  river  (Avhere  his  body  might  be  found)  rather  than 
buried  in  the  ocean.  The  prisoner,  Goodere,  denied  indeed  he 
had  any  such  design,  but  yet  could  not  refrain  from  the  usual  ex- 
hortation to  dying  persons  that  he  would  have  him  make  his 
peace  with  God. 

At  the  Uedcliff,  the  privateer's  men  were  set  on  shore,  and  I 
think  about  seven  in  the  evening  the  barge  reached  the  '  Ruby' 
man-of-war,  then  in  the  King's  Road.     Mr.  Goodere  had  in  their 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  355 

passage  talked  of  bleeding  and  purging  his  brother,  to  bring  him 
to  his  senses,  pretending  he  was  a  madman  ;  for  he  knew  very 
well  that  very  few  of  his  own  men  would  have  assisted  him  in 
such  an  enterprise,  had  they  not  been  under  a  belief  that  his 
brother  was  really  mad.  And  to  keep  up  such  a  notion,  as  soon 
as  he  got  him  on  board  the  'Ruby,'  he  hurried  him  down  what 
I  think  they  call  the  gangway  into  the  purser's  cabin,  making  an 
apology  that  he  had  brought  in  a  mad  fellow  there  ;  then  ordered 
two  bolts  to  be  clapped  on  the  cabin-door,  for  the  making  his 
prison  more  secure,  which  was  accordingly  done.  And  now 
having  made  his  brother  a  prisoner,  his  next  step  was  to  destroy 
him.  He  took  Mahony  with  him  into  his  own  cabin,  and  there 
the  cruel  means  of  murdering  his  brother  was  concerted  between 
them.  They  agreed  to  strangle  him,  and  engaged  one  White 
(who  is  hereafter  to  stand  to  the  justice  of  his  country)  to  assist 
them  in  the  butchery.  I  should  have  told  you.  Gentlemen,  that 
it  is  usual  in  ships  of  war  to  place  a  sentinel  over  persons  under 
arrest ;  and  accordingly  one  was  placed,  by  Mr.  Goodere's  orders, 
with  a  drawn  cutlass  in  his  hand,  at  the  door  of  the  cabin  whei'e 
Sir  John  was  confined.  This  sentinel  about  twelve  at  night  was 
relieved  by  one  Buchanan.  It  was  impossible  for  the  prisoners  to 
put  their  wicked  design  in  execution  while  this  Buchanan  re- 
mained at  the  cabin-door  ;  so,  to  remove  that  obstacle,  Mr. 
Goodere  (after  having  been  in  close  conference  with  Mahony  and 
White)  comes  down  to  the  purser's  cabin,  takes  the  cutlass  from 
Buchanan,  and  orders  him  on  deck,  posting  himself  at  the  door 
of  the  purser's  cabin  with  the  drawn  cutlass  in  his  hand.  I  shall 
open  none  of  the  circumstances  disclosed  by  Mahony  in  his  con- 
fession, as  being  no  evidence  against  Mr.  Goodere  ;  but  it  will  be 
made  appear  to  you,  in  proof  that  Mahony  and  White  came  to 
the  purser's  cabin  while  Mr.  Goodere  stood  posted  at  the  door  of 
it,  that  they  were  let  into  the  purser's  cabin  by  Mr.  Goodere 
himself  Mahony  in  particular  was  seen  by  one  Macguiness  (who 
kept  watch  in  the  gun-room)  to  go  into  the  purser's  cabin,  Mr. 
Goodere  at  the  same  time  standing  sentinel  at  the  door  of  it,  and 
waving  his  cutlass  at  Macguiness  to  make  him  go  back.  He  did 
so  ;  but  Mr.  Goodere  waved  his  cutla.ss  to  him  a  second  time, 
and  bade  him  keep  back.  Then,  Gentlemen,  it  was  that  Mr. 
Goodere  and  his  two  accomplices  effected  the  cruel  murder  of  his 
unfortunate  brother.     Mahony  was  heard  to  bid  him  not  to  stir 


0.")()  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

tor  his  life  ;  aiul  ihoii,  in  coiijunctioii  with  White,  while  Mr. 
(loodere  stood  wateli  lor  them  at  the  cahin-door  (whieh  iMr.  IJe- 
cordor  Avill  tell  yon  was  the  same  as  beirifr  within  it),  tell  on  this 
unhappy  •jentlemau  as  he  lay  in  the  cabin  ;  and  one  of  them 
having  half  throttled  him  with  his  hands,  they  put  a  rope  about 
his  neck,  and  at  length  strangled  him.  Great  were  his  agonies, 
and  long  and  painful  the  conflict  between  life  and  death.  He 
struggled  violently,  and  kicked  against  the  cabin,  crying  out 
several  times  very  loud,  '  Murder  I  Must  I  die  I  Help,  for  God's 
sake  ;  save  my  life !  Here  are  twenty  guineas — take  them  !' 
For  he  well  knew  they  were  strangling  him  by  his  brother's  or- 
ders, and  therefore  offered  them  a  bribe  to  spare  his  life.  The 
ship's  cooper  (one  Jones)  and  his  wife,  lying  in  the  adjoining 
cabin,  heard  his  dying  outcries  and  the  noise  occasioned  by  his 
kicking  ;  his  cries,  too,  were  heard  by  others  far  beyond  the  cabin- 
door.  Nature  at  length  gave  way,  and  he  expired  under  these 
cruelties.  Then  Mahony  called  for  a  light,  that  they  might  have 
all  the  evidence  of  their  eyesight  that  Sir  John  was  actually 
dead  ;  and  (which  is  a  shocking  circumstance  in  the  case)  Mr. 
Goodere  himself  handed  them  in  the  candle  upon  that  occasion. 
Buchanan,  perceiving  the  light  disappear,  was  coming  to  him 
with  another  ;  but  Mr.  Goodere  waved  the  cutlass  at  him  to 
stand  ofT.  Such,  Gentlemen,  was  the  fatal  conclusion  of  this 
tragical  business.  What  was  seen  by  the  cooper  and  his  wife 
after  the  candle  was  handed  in,  with  regard  to  rifling  the  de- 
ceased, shall  come  from  their  own  mouths.  The  murder  being 
thus  effected,  Mr.  Goodere  locked  the  door,  and  withdrew  to  his 
own  cabin.  Mahony  and  White  were  by  his  order  put  aboard 
the  yawl,  and  sent  to  Bristol.  They  did  not  fly  the  city.  Gentle- 
men, depending  that  their  fellow-murderer  would  some  way  or 
other  smother  this  deed  of  darkness,  and  take  care  of  their  security 
for  the  sake  of  his  own.  But  Divine  Providence  ordered  other- 
wise. The  honest  cooper,  though  he  durst  not  give  the  alarm 
while  the  murder  was  committing,  for  fear  of  sharing  the  same 
fate  with  Sir  John,  yet  as  soon  as  he  could  with  safety,  made  a 
discovery  of  the  whole  that  he  had  heard  and  seen.  It  was  con- 
cluded that  Mr.  Goodere  had  made  away  with  his  brother,  which 
loo  evidently  appeared  on  the  cooper's  forcing  open  the  purser's 
cabin-door,  where  Sir  John  lay  murdered  ;  and  thereupon  the 
cooper  had  the  resolution  to  seize  the  murderer  who  remained  on 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  357 

board,  though  his  Captain.  He  pretended  innocence  ;  and  when 
brought  by  warrant  before  Mr.  Mayor  and  other  of  the  city  ma- 
gisti'ates,  pubUcly  declared  that  he  did  not  then  know  his  brother 
was  murdered,  and  went  so  far  as  to  deny  his  having  had  any 
hand  in  either  seizing,  detaining,  or  murdering  him.  But,  Gen- 
tlemen, if  my  instructions  don't  mislead  me,  we  shall  fix  the 
thing  at  least  as  strongly  upon  Mr.  Goodere  as  Mahony,  and  more 
strongly  upon  them  both  than  I  am  willing  to  open  it." 

Then  came  a  cloud  of  witnesses  :  Mr.  Smith,  the  landlord  of 
the  'White  Hart;'  a  variety  of  bystandei's;  the  men  of  the 
barge,  one  of  whom,  the  Midshipman  Williams,  deposes  to  the 
exhortation  given  by  Captain  Goodere  to  his  brother,  to  make  his 
peace  with  God  : 

Williams. — And  the  Captain  being  as  near  to  Sir  John  as  I 
am  to  your  Lordship,  Sir  John  asked  the  Captain  what  he  was 
going  to  do  with  him  ?  Says  the  Captain  :  "  I  am  going  to  carry 
you  on  board  to  save  you  from  ruin,  and  from  lying  rotting  in  a 
jail." 

Mr.  Verno7i  [counsel  for  the  j^i'osecution). — And  what  reply 
did  Sir  John  make  to  that  ? 

Williams. — He  said  :  "  I  know  better  things.  I  believe  you 
are  going  to  murder  me.  You  might  as  well  throw  me  over- 
board, and  murder  me  here  right,  as  carry  me  on  board  ship  and 
murder  me."  "  No,"  says  the  Captain,  "  I  am  not  going  to  do 
any  such  thing ;  but  I  would  have  you  make  your  peace  with 
God."     As  I  steered  the  boat  I  heard  all  that  passed. 

Then  came  witnesses  to  the  bringing  on  board  and  into  the 
purser's  cabin,  and  the  fastening  on  the  boils,  and  the  placing  a 
sentinel  at  the  door,  and  the  replacing  that  sentinel  by  Captain 
Goodere  himself;  and  then  comes  the  chief  witness  of  all,  the 
"  honest  cooper." 

Edward  Jones  sworn  : 

Mr.  Vernon. — Mr.  Jones,  I  think  you  are  the  cooper  of  the 
ship  '  Ruby  V 

Jones. — Yes,  sir. 

Mr.  Vernon. — Were  you  on  board  on  Sunday,  the  18th  of 
January  last  ? 

Jones. — Yes,  sir  ;   I  was. 

Mr.  Vernoyi. — In  what  cabin  did  you  lie  that  night  ? 


858  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Jonra. — 1  had  no  cabin  ;  but  I  made  bold  to  lie  in  the  slop- 
room  that  nipht,  having  my  wife  on  board. 

Mr.   Vernon. — Pray  what  is  that  you  call  the  slop-room  ? 

Jones. — It  is  like  a  cabin. 

Mr.  Ycrno7i. — How  near  is  the  slop-room  to  the  purser's 
cabin  ? 

Jones. — Nothing  but  a  thin  deal  partition  parts  it  from  the 
purser's  cabin. 

Mr.  Vernon. — Will  you  relate  to  Mr.  Recorder  and  the  jury, 
what  you  know  about  the  murder  of  Mr.  Goodere's  brother.  Tell 
the  whole  you  know  concerning  it. 

Jones. — About  Wednesday  or  Thursday  before  this  happened, 
the  Captain  said  to  me,  "  Cooper,  get  this  purser's  cabin  cleared 
out  ;"  for  he  said  he  expected  a  gentleman  shortly  to  come  on 
board.  I  cleared  it  out,  and  on  Sunday  evening  the  gentleman 
came  on  board.  When  the  people  on  deck  cried,  "  Cooper,  show 
a  light,"  I  brought  a  light,  and  saw  the  Captain  going  down  the 
cockpit  ladder.  The  gentleman  was  hauled  down ;  he  com- 
plained of  a  pain  in  his  thigh  from  their  hauling  him  on  board. 
The  Captain  asked  him  if  he  would  have  a  dram.  He  said  no, 
for  he  had  drank  nothing  but  water  for  two  years.  The  Captain 
ordered  Mahony  a  dram.  He  drank  it.  He  also  ordered  one 
Jack  Lee  to  put  two  bolts  on  the  purser's  cabin-door.  The  gen- 
tleman walked  to  and  fro  the  purser's  cabin,  while  they  were 
nailing  the  bolts  on.  He  wanted  to  speak  with  one  of  the  offi- 
cers. The  carpenter  told  him  he  was  the  carpenter.  Saj's  the 
gentleman,  "  Do  you  understand  vi'hat  my  brother  Sam  is  going 
to  do  with  me  ?"  And  said  his  brother  had  brought  him  on  board 
to  murder  him  that  night.  The  carpenter  said  he  hoped  not,  but 
what  was  done  was  for  his  good.  The  Captain  said,  they  must 
not  mind  what  his  brother  said,  for  he  had  been  mad  for  a 
twelvemonth  past ;  then  the  Captain  went  up  again,  and  went 
into  the  doctor's  room.  I  went  to  bed  about  eight  o'clock.  Some 
time  about  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  I  heard  the  gentleman  knock. 
Mahony  went  into  him.  Mahony  sat  down  in  the  cabin,  and  he 
and  the  gentleman  had  a  great  deal  of  discourse  together  ;  the 
gentleman  said  he  had  been  at  the  East  Indies,  and  told  what  he 
had  got  by  his  merit,  and  Mahony  said  some  by  good  friends.  I 
heard  the  gentleman,  after  Mahony  had  gone,  pray  to  God  to  be 
his  comforter  under  his  afflictions:  he  said   to  himself  that   he' 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  359 

knew  he  was  going  to  be  murdered,  and  prayed  that  it  might 
come  to  light  by  one  means  or  another.  I  took  no  notice  of  it, 
because  I  thought  him  a  crazy  man.  I  slept  a  little,  and  about 
two  or  three  o'clock,  my  wife  waked  me.  She  said,  "  Don't  you 
hear  the  noise  that  is  made  by  the  gentleman  ;  I  believe  they 
are  killing  him."  I  then  heard  him  kick,  and  cry  out,  "  Here 
are  twenty  guineas  !  Take  them  !  Don't  murder  me  I  Must  I  die  I 
Must  I  die  I  0  my  life  I"  and  gave  several  keeks  with  his  throat, 
and  then  he  was  still.  I  got  up  in  my  bed  upon  my  knees  ;  I 
saw  a  light  glimmering  in  at  the  crack,  and  saw  that  same  man 
Mahony,  with  a  candle  in  his  hand.  The  gentleman  was  lying 
on  one  side.  Charles  White  was  there,  and  he  put  out  his  hand 
to  get  the  gentleman  upright.  I  heard  Mahony  cry  out,  and 
swear,  "  Let  us  take  his  watch  I"  But  White  said  he  could  not 
get  at  it.  I  could  not  see  his  pockets.  White  laid  hold  of  him, 
and  went  to  tumbling  him  up  to  get  out  his  money  and  watch. 
I  saw  him  lay  hold  of  the  chain.  White  gave  Mahony  the 
watch,  who  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  White  put  his  hand  into  one 
of  the  gentleman's  pockets,  and  cursed  that  there  was  nothing 
but  silver,  but  he  put  his  hand  into  the  other  pocket,  and  there 
he  found  gold. 

Mr.  Recorder. — In  what  posture  did  Sir  John  lie  at  that  time  ? 

Jones. — He  lay  in  a  very  uneasy  manner,  with  one  leg  up,  and 
when  they  moved  him,  he  remained  so  ;  which  gave  me  a  sus- 
picion that  he  was  dead.  /  saw  a  person  s  hand  on  the  throat 
of  this  gentleman,  and  heard  the  person  say,  "  ^  Tis  done,  and 
well  done.'' 

Mr.  Recorder. — Was  that  a  third  person's  hand,  or  the  hand 
of  Mahony  or  White  ? 

Jones. — I  can  not  say  whether  it  was  a  third  person's  hand  or 
not.  I  saw  but  two  persons  in  the  cabin.  I  did  not  see  the 
person,  for  it  was  done  in  a  moment.  I  can't  swear  I  saw  more 
than  two  persons  in  the  cabin. 

Mr.  Recorder. — Did  you  take  notice  of  the  hand  that  was  laid 
on  Sir  John's  throat  ? 

Jones. — I  did. 

Mr.  Recorder. — Did  it  appear  to  you  like  the  hand  of  a  com- 
mon sailor  ? 

Jones. — No  ;  it  seemed  white. 

Mr.   Vernon. — You  have  seen  two  hands  held   up   at   the  bar 


360  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

to-day.  I  would  ask  you  to  wliich  of  them  it  was  most  like  in 
color  .' 

Jo/icii. — I  have  often  seen  Mahoiiy's  and  White's  hands,  and  I 
thought  the  hand  was  whiter  than  either  ol'  theirs  ;  and  I  think 
it  was  neither  of  their  hands  by  the  color  of  it. 

Mr.  Recorder. — Was  Sir  John  on  the  floor,  or  on  the  bed  ? 

Jones. — On  the  bed,  but  there  was  no  sheets.  It  was  a  flock- 
bed,  and  nobody  had  lain  there  for  a  great  while. 

Mr.  Ycr)ion. — How  long  did  the  cries  and  noise  that  you  heard 
continue  ? 

Jones. — Not  a  great  while.  He  cried  like  a  person  going  out 
of  the  world,  very  low.  At  my  hearing  it,  I  would  have  got  out 
in  the  mean  time,  but  my  wife  desii'ed  me  not  to  go,  for  she  was 
afraid  there  was  somebody  at  the  door  would  have  killed  me. 

Mr.  Vernon. — What  more  do  you  know  of  this  matter  ?  or  of 
Mahony  and  White  being  afterward  put  on  shore  ? 

Jones,. — I  heard  some  talking  that  the  yawl  was  to  go  to  the 
shore  about  four  of  the  clock  in  the  morning,  and  some  of  us  were 
called,  and  I  importuned  my  wife  to  let  me  go  out.  I  called  and 
asked,  "  Who  is  sentinel  ?"  Duncan  Buchanan  answered  and 
said,  "  It  is  I."  "  Oh  !"  says  I,  "  is  it  you  ?"  I  then  thought 
myself  safe.  I  jumped  out  in  my  shirt,  went  to  him  ;  says  I, 
"  There  have  been  a  devilish  noise  in  the  cabin,  Duncan,  do  you 
know  any  thing  of  the  matter  ?  They  have  certainly  killed  the 
gentleman.  What  shall  us  do  ?"  I  went  to  the  cabin-door, 
where  the  doctor's  mate  lodged,  asked  him  if  he  "  had  heard  any 
thing  to-night?"  "I  heard  a  great  noise,"  said  he.  "I  be- 
lieve," said  I,  "  they  have  killed  that  gentleman."  He  said,  he 
"  believed  so,  too."  I  drawed  aside  the  scuttle  that  looked  into 
the  purser's  cabin  from  the  steward's  room,  and  cried,  "  ^ir,  if 
you  are  alive,  speak."  He  did  not  speak.  I  took  a  long  stick, 
and  endeavored  to  move  him,  but  found  he  was  dead.  I  told  the 
doctor's  mate,  that  I  thought  he  was  the  proper  person  to  relate 
the  matter  to  the  officer,  but  he  did  not  care  to  do  it  then.  "  If 
you  will  not,  I  will,"  said  I.  I  went  up  to  the  Lieutenant,  and 
desired  him  to  come  out  of  his  cabin  to  me.  "  What  is  the  mat- 
ter ?"  said  he.  I  told  him,  "  I  believed  there  had  been  murder 
committed  in  the  cockpit,  upon  the  gentleman  who  was  brought 
on  board  last  night."  "  Oh  !  don't  say  so,"  said  the  Lieutenant. 
In  that  interim,  while  we  were  talking  about  it,  Mr.  Marsh,  the 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  361 

niidshipmaii,  came  and  said  that  there  was  an  order  to  carry 
White  and  Mahony  on  shore.  I  then  swore  they  should  not  go 
on  shore,  for  there  was  murder  committed.  The  Lieutenant  said, 
"  Pray,  he  easy  ;  it  can't  be  so.  I  don't  believe  the  Captain 
would  do  any  such  thing."  That  gentleman  there,  Mr.  Marsh, 
went  to  ask  the  Captain  if  Mahony  and  White  must  be  put  on 
shore  ?  And  Mr.  Marsh  returned  again,  and  said  the  Captain 
said  they  should.  I  then  said,  "  It  is  certainly  true  that  the  gen- 
tleman is  murdered  between  them."  I  did  not  see  Mahony  and. 
White  that  morning,  because  they  were  put  on  shore.  I  told  the 
Lieutenant,  that  if  he  would  not  take  care  of  the  matter,  I  would 
write  up  to  the  Admiralty,  and  to  the  Mayor  of  Bristol.  The 
Lieutenant  asked  the  Captain  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine.  The 
Captain  would  not  come  out  of  his  cabin.  Then  the  Lieutenant 
went  in  first.  I  followed  him.  Then  I  seized  him,  and  several 
others  came  to  my  assistance. 

The  cooper's  good  wife,  Margaret  Jones,  corroborated  her  hus- 
band's evidence  in  every  point  with  equal  clearness  and  directness. 
Witness  after  witness  folloM^ed  with  terrible  repetition,  and  a  dis- 
tinctness, a  power  of  simple,  honest  truth  that  nothing  could 
shake.  The  very  watch  and  money  for  which  they  had  wrangled, 
over  the  dead  body,  were  brought  home  to  the  subordinate  ruf- 
fians, and  the  whole  three  were  found  guilty,  condemned,  and 
executed  as  near  as  possible  to  the  scene  of  the  crime. 

This  remarkable  murder  took  place  rather  more  than  a  hun- 
dred years  ago.  The  two  brothers  were  uncles  of  Samuel  Foote, 
the  celebrated  mimic  and  comedian,  and  admirable  farce  writer, 
whose  baptismal  name  was  probably  derived  from  that  disgrace 
to  the  British  Navy,  Captain  Samuel  Goodere. 

a 


)62  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


XXVIII. 

FISHING    SONGS. 

MR.  DOUBLEDAY MLSS  CORBETT. 

All  the  world,  that  is  to  say,  the  reading  world,  whether  male 
or  female,  has  yielded  to  the  magic  of  one  Fisherman's  book — 
"  The  English  Angler,"  of  Isaac  Walton  ;  and  such  is  the  charm 
of  the  subject,  that  the  modern  works  which,  so  far  as  the  science 
of  angling  is  concerned,  may  be  said  to  have  superseded  the  in- 
structions of  the  old  master,  the  works  of  Sir  Humphry  Davy,  of 
Mr.  Hofland,  of  Mr.  Henry  Phillips,  all  men  eminent  for  other 
triumphs  than  those  of  the  fishing-rod,  have,  in  their  several  ways, 
inherited  much  of  the  fascination  that  belongs  to  the  venerable 
father  of  the  piscatory  art. 

Even  the  dissertations  on  salmon-fishing,  as  practiced  in  the 
wilder  parts  of  Ireland  and  in  Norway,  which,  when  measured 
with  the  humble  sport  of  angling  for  trout  in  a  southern  stream., 
may  be  likened  to  the  difference  between  a  grand  lion  hunt  in 
Africa  and  the  simple  pheasant  shooting  of  a  Norfolk  squire — even 
the  history  of  landing  a  salmon  partakes  of  the  Waltonian  charm. 
We  take  up  the  book,  and  we  forget  to  lay  it  down  again  ;  the 
greatest  compliment  that  reader  can  pay  to  author. 

The  poetical  brothers  of  the  angle,  however — I  mean  such  as 
have  actually  written  in  verse — are  not  only  fewer  in  number, 
but  have  generally  belonged  to  the  northern  portion  of  our  island. 
I  am  not  sure  that  the  pleasure  with  which  I  read  "  The  Fisher's 
Welcome,"  may  not  partly  be  referred  to  that  cause.  At  least,  I 
do  not  like  Mr.  Doubleday's  genial  song  the  less  for  the  reminis- 
cences of  canny  Northumberland  with  which  every  stanza  teems. 

Years,  many  and  changeful,  have  gone  by  since  I  trod  those 
northern  braes  ;  they  at  whose  side  I  stood  lie  under  the  green 
Bod  ;  yet  still,  as  I  read  of  the  Tyne  o"  of  the  Wanebeck,  the 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  363 

bright  rivers  sparkle  before  me,  as  if  I  had  walked  beside  them 
but  yesterday.  I  still  seem  to  stand  with  my  dear  father  under 
the  gray  walls  of  that  grand  old  abbey  church  at  Hexham,  gaz- 
ing upon  the  broad  river,  as  it  sweeps  in  a  majestic  semicircle 
before  us,  amid,  perhaps,  the  very  fairest  scenery  of  that  fair  val- 
ley of  the  Tyne,  so  renowned  for  varied  beauty,  while  he  points 
to  the  haunts  of  his  boyhood,  especially  the  distant  woods  of  Dil- 
stone  Hall,  the  forfeited  estate  of  Lord  Derwentwater.  I  still 
seem  to  listen,  as  he  tells  how,  in  the  desolate  orchard,  he  had 
often  gathered  fruit  almost  returned  to  the  wildness  of  the  forest  ; 
and  how,  among  the  simple  peasantry,  the  recollection  of  the  un- 
happy Earl,  so  beloved  and  so  lamented,  had  lingered  for  half  a 
century  ;  and  tales  were  yet  told  how,  after  his  execution,  his 
mangled  remains  were  brought  secretly  by  night  to  be  interred  in 
the  vault  of  his  ancestors,  halting  mysteriously  in  private  houses 
by  day,  and  I'esuming  their  melancholy  journey  during  the  dark 
hours  ;  the  secret  kiiown  to  so  many,  and  yet  kept  so  faithfully 
and  so  loyally,  handed  down  from  father  to  son,  and  spoken  in 
low-whispered  words  as  a  solemn  confidence  to  be  religiously  held 
sacred  I  a  duty  to  the  ruined  and  the  dead  !  Thirty  or  forty 
years  more  had  passed,  yet  I  myself  heard  the  country  people 
speaking  with  tender  pity  of  that  cherished  lord. 

Or  the  Wansbeck,  more  familiar  still  !  How  plainly  do  I  see 
that  wild,  daring  stream  ? — now  almost  girdling,  as  a  moat,  the 
massive  ruins  of  Mitford  Castle,* — in  the  time  of  the  Conqueror, 
it  is  to  be  presumed,  the  common  ancestral  home  of  our  race  and 
name,  so  widely  scattered  since  ;  now  brawling  through  the  deep 
glen  behind  the  old  tower  of  Little-Harle  ; — now  almost  invisible, 
creeping  under  the  single  arch  that  spans  the  richly-fringed  burn 
by  the  pretty  rectory  of  Hartburn  ; — now  reflecting  the  autumn 
woods  of  Bothal,  and  the  gray  walls  of  the  Lady's  Chapel  ! 

Proteus  of  streams  !  Here  a  foaming  torront  between  rocks  no 
wider  than  a  deer  may  leap  at  a  bound  I — there  a  spreading 
lakelet,  too  shallow  for  a  bridge,  crossed  by  huge  stepping-stones, 

*  An  old  kinsman,  my  father's  uncle,  who  lived  almost  within  sight  of 
the  Ca.stle  Mound,  used  to  derive  the  name  Mid-ford,  from  the  situation 
of  the  keep  between  two  fords  of  the  Wansbeck.  So  convinced  was  he  of 
tlie  truth  of  his  theory,  that,  contrary  to  the  practice  of  all  the  rest  of  the 
family,  he  pertinaciously  adopted  that  mode  of  orthography  in  writing  his 
patronymic. 


364  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

on  which  my  southern  feet  tottered  and  stumbled,  and  all  but 

fell : 

How  well  I  remember  my  <Tirlish  terror  when  called  upon  to 
pass  from  one  stepping-stone  to  another,  and  the  girlish  bravado 
with  which,  wanting  courage  to  turn  back,  and  laughing,  half  to 
cover  my  trepidation,  and  half  from  genuine  fright,  I  confronted 
the  danger  and  performed  the  exploit  I  Ah  !  I  am  not  the  first 
who  has  done  a  bold  thing  in  fear  and  trembling,  as  (if  such 
truths  were  ever  told)  many  a  soldier  on  his  first  field  could  bear 
witness.  At  last,  encouraged  by  the  applause  of  friends  and  rela- 
tives, I  even  came  to  like  the  stepping-stones,  the  excitement, 
and  the  praise  ;  just  as,  cheered  by  similar  bribery,  the  soldier 
learns  to  love  a  great  battle-day. 

Those  stepjiing-stones  at  Mitford  !  I  can  see  them  now.  I 
had  heard  of  them  before  I  saw  them,  and  of  their  perils,  A 
lady's-maid  of  my  acquaintance,  London-born  and  London-bred — 
one  of  those  dainty  waiting  gentlewomen  for  whose  behoof  Con- 
greve,  in  the  most  graceful  as  well  as  the  wittiest  of  his  comedies, 
invented  the  name  of  Mrs.  Mincing — had  been  seduced  into  ven- 
turing across  them,  handed  and  supported  by  a  French  valet. 
She  had  fallen,  of  course,  and  had  dragged  her  unlucky  escort 
after  her ;  and  her  description  of  her  previous  alarm,  the  agonies 
she  underwent  before  her  dip,  and  the  terrors  of  the  catastrophe  ; 
how  she  lost  a  kid  slipper  and  spoiled  a  silk  skirt,  and  was  laughed 
at  by  the  north-country  savages  into  the  bargain  ;  was  enough  to 
frighten  all  the  silk  skirts  and  kid  slippers  within  fifty  miles,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  Mrs.  Mincings,  or  of  me. 

Bright  river  Wansbeck!  How  many  pleasant  memories  I  owe 
to  thy  mere  name !  It  were  but  common  courtesy  to  wish  a 
brimming  basket  and  a  smiling  home  to  the  kindly  songster  who 
easts  his  line  across  thy  waters. 

THE  FISHERS  WELCOME. 

We  twa  ha'  fished  the  Kale  sae  clear, 

And  streams  o'  niossj-  Reed ; 
We've  tried  the  Wansbeck  and  the  Wear, 

The  Teviot  and  the  Tweed; 
An'  we  will  try  them  ance  again, 

When  summer  sun.s  are  fine ; 
An'  we'll  throw  the  flies  thegither  yet, 

For  the  days  o'  lang  syne. 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  865 

'Tis  mony  years  sin'  first  we  sat 

On  Coquet's  bonny  braes, 
An'  mony  a  brither  fisher's  gane, 

An'  clad  in  his  last  claiths  ; 
An'  we  maun  follow  wi'  the  lave, 

Grim  Death  he  heucks  us  a'; 
But  we'll  hae  anither  fishing  bout 

Afore  we're  ta'en  awa'. 

For  we  are  hale  and  hearty  baith, 

Tho'  frosty  are  our  pows, 
We  still  can  guide  our  fishing  graith, 

And  climb  the  dykes  and  knowes ; 
We'll  mount  our  creels  and  grip  our  gads, 

An'  throw  a  sweeping  line, 
An'  we'll  hae  a  splash  amang  the  lads. 

For  the  days  o'  lang  syne. 

Tho'  Cheviot's  top  be  frosty  still, 

He's  green  below  the  knee, 
Sae  don  your  plaid,  and  tak'  your  gad. 

An'  gae  awa'  wi'  me. 
Come  busk  your  flies,  my  auld  compeer, 

We're  fidgen  a'  fu'  fain. 
We've  fished  the  Coquet  mony  a  year. 

An'  we'll  fish  her  ance  again. 

An'  hameward  when  we  toddle  back, 

An'  nicht  begins  to  fa'. 
An'  ilka  chiel  maun  hae  his  crack, 

We'll  crack  aboon  them  a'. 
AVhen  jugs  are  toomed  and  coggens  wet, 

I'll  lay  my  loof  in  thine  ; 
We've  shown  we're  gude  at  water  yet, 

An'  we're  little  warse  at  wine. 

We'll  crack  how  mony  a  creel  we've  filled. 

How  mony  a  line  we've  flung, 
How  mony  a  ged  and  saumon  killed, 

In  days  when  we  were  young. 
We'll  gar  the  callants  a'  look  blue. 

An'  sing  anither  tune  ; 
They're  bleezing  aye  o'  what  they'll  do. 

We'll  tell  them  what  we've  dune. 

The  next  song  is  of  the  sea  : — 

Weel  may  the  boatie  row, 
An'  better  may  she  speed ; 


866  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

An'  wool  niny  the  boatie  row, 
That  wins  tho  hairniu's  bread ! 

Tho  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 
The  boatie  rows  indeed ; 

An'  happy  be  the  lot  of  a', 
That  wishes  her  to  speed ! 

I  cuist  my  line  in  Largo  Bay, 

An'  fishes  I  caught  nine  ; 
There's  three  to  boil,  and  three  to  fry, 

An'  three  to  bait  the  line. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows. 

The  boatie  rows  indeed; 
An'  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 

That  wishes  her  to  speed  ! 

0  weel  may  the  boatie  row 
That  tills  a  heavy  creel, 

An'  cleads  us  a'  frae  head  to  feet, 
An'  buys  our  parritch  meal. 

The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows. 
The  boatie  rows  indeed ; 

An'  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 
That  wishes  her  to  speed ! 

When  Jamie  vowed  he  wad  be  mine 

An'  won  frae  me  my  heart. 
Oh  muckle  lighter  grew  my  creel, 

He  swore  we'd  never  part. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows. 

The  boatie  rows  fu'  weel ; 
An'  muckle  lighter  is  the  lade. 

When  luve  bears  up  the  creel. 

My  curch  I  pit  upon  my  held, 
And  dressed  mysel  fu'  braw ; 

1  trow  my  heart  was  dowf  an'  wae 
When  Jamie  gaed  awa'. 

But  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

An'  lucky  be  her  part. 
An'  lightsome  be  the  lassie's  care 

That  yields  an  honest  heart. 

When  Sawney,  Jock,  and  Jeanetie 

Are  up  and  gotten  lear. 
They'll  help  to  gar  the  boatie  row. 

An'  lighten  a'  our  care. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  fu'  weel ! 
An'  lightsome  be  her  heart  that  bears 

The  murlain  and  the  creel. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  367 

An'  when  wV  age  we  are  worn  down, 

An'  hirpling  round  the  door, 
They'll  row  to  keep  us  hale  and  warm, 

As  we  did  them  before. 
Then  weel  may  the  boatie  row 

That  wins  the  bairnie's  bread  ; 
An'  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 

That  wish  the  boat  to  speed ! 

Again  a  song  of  the  net  and  of  the  fishing- boat,  and  surely  one 
of  no  ordinary  merit.  Miss  Corbett  is  the  authoress.  We  may 
well  be  proud  of  a  poetess  whose  song  is  as  bold  and  free  as  the 
breeze  of  which  she  sings  : — 

WE'LL   GO   TO  SEA  NO   MORE. 

Oh !  blithely  shines  the  bonnie  sun 

Upon  the  Isle  of  May, 
And  blithely  comes  the  morning  tide 

Into  St.  Andrew's  Bay, 
Then  up,  gudeman,  the  breeze  is  fair ; 

And  up  my  bra'  bairns  three, 
There's  goud  in  yonder  bonnie  boat 
That  sails  sae  weel  the  sea  ! 
When  haddocks  leave  the  Frith  o'  Forth, 

An'  mussels  leave  the  shore, 
When  oysters  climb  up  Berwick  Law, 
We'll  go  to  sea  no  more, 

No  more, 
We'll  go  to  sea  no  more. 

I've  seen  the  waves  as  blue  as  air, 

I've  seen  them  green  as  grass ; 
But  I  never  feared  their  heaving  yet 

From  Grangemouth  to  the  Bass, 
I've  seen  the  sea  as  black  as  pitch, 

I've  seen  it  white  as  snow ; 
But  I  never  feared  its  foaming  yet, 
Though  the  winds  blew  high  or  low. 
When  squalls  capsize  our  wooden  walls, 

When  the  French  ride  at  the  Nore, 
When  Leith  meets  Aberdour  half-way. 
We'll  go  to  sea  no  more, 

No  more, 
We'll  go  to  sea  no  more. 

I  never  liked  the  landsman's  life. 

The  earth  is  aye  the  same  ; 
Gi'e  me  tlie  ocean  fur  my  dower, 

My  vessel  for  my  harae. 


368  RKCOLLECTIONri    OF 

Gi'o  mo  tlR'  I'u-Uls  tluit  no  man  i)lo\v3, 

The  ttirm  that  i)aya  no  fee; 
Gi'c  nic  the  bonny  tish,  that  glance 
So  gladly  through  the  sea. 

AVhen  sails  hang  Happing  on  the  masts, 

While  through  the  wave  we  snore  ; 
When  in  a  calm  we're  tempest-tossed, 
We'll  go  to  sea  no  more, 

No  more, 
We'll  go  to  sea  no  more. 

The  sun  is  up,  and  round  Inchkeith 

The  breezes  softly  blaw ; 
The  gudeman  has  the  lines  on  board : — 

Awa',  my  bairns,  awa'. 
An'  ye  be  back  by  gloamin'  gray, 

An'  bright  the  fire  will  low, 
An'  in  your  tale.s  and  sangs  we'll  tell 
How  weel  the  boat  ye  row. 
When  life's  last  sun  gaes  feebly  down, 

An'  Death  comes  to  our  door. 
When  a'  the  world's  a  dream  to  us, 
We'll  go  to  sea  no  more. 

No  more, 
We'll  go  to  sea  no  more. 

Gi'e  me  the  fields  that  no  man  plows. 
The  farm  that  pays  no  fee. 

What  two  lines  are  these  ?  The  whole  song  seems  set  to  the 
music  of  the  winds  and  waves,  so  free  and  unshackled  is  the 
rhythm,  and  so  hearty  and  seaman-like  the  sentiment.  To  speak 
all  praise  in  one  word,  it  might  have  been  written  by  Joanna 
Baillie. 

Although  not  strictly  a  Fishing  Song,  yet  as  one  purporting  to 
be  sung  by  a  mariner's  wife,  I  can  not  resist  the  temptation  of 
adding  the  charming  ballad  that  concludes  this  paper.  Mr. 
Robert  Chambers  attributes  the  authorship  to  William  Julius 
Mickle,  the  translator  of  the  "  Lusiad,"  and  the  writer  of"  Cum- 
nor  Hall,"  to  which,  and  the  impression  made  upon  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  in  early  life,  by  the   first  stanza,*  the  world  is  probably 

*  "  The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall. 

The  moon,  sweet  regent  of  the  sky. 
Silvered  the  walls  of  Cumnor  Hall, 
And  many  an  oak  that  grew  thereby." 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  869 

indebted  for  Kenilworth.  Mr.  Chambers  says  that  of  this  ballad 
an  imperfect,  altei'ed,  and  corrected  copy,  M'as  found  among  his 
manuscripts  after  his  death  ;  and  his  widow,  being  applied  to, 
confirmed  the  external  evidence  in  his  favor,  by  an  express  dec- 
laration that  her  husband  had  said  the  song  was  his  own,  and 
that  he  had  explained  to  her  the  Scottish  words. 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  1 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weell 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark  1 
Ye  jades,  fling  bye  your  wheel. 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark. 

When  Colin's  at  the  doorl 
Gie  me  my  cloak, — I'll  to  the  quay. 
And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  ava' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house, 
When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

And  gie  me  down  my  biggonet, 

My  bishop-satin  gown, 
And  rin  and  tell  the  bailie's  wife 

That  Colin's  come  to  town. 
My  Sunday  shoon  they  maun  gae  on. 

My  hose  o'  pearlin  blue ; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 
For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house. 

There's  nae  luck  ava' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house, 
When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

Rise  up  and  mak'  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  cotton  gown. 

And  .Jock  his  Sunday  coat. 
And  mak'  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes, 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw ; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman — 
He  likes  to  see  them  braw. 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  ava' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house, 
When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

There's  twa  fat  liens  upon  the  lionk, 
They've  fed  this  month  and  niiiir ;' 


870  KECOLLKCr IONS    OF 

Mak'  haste  and  thraw  tlu'ir  necks  about, 

Tliat  Colin  wcel  may  fare. 
And  sjiiead  the  table  neat  and  clean. 

Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw  ; — 
For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 
When  he  was  far  awa' ! 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  ava' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house, 
When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sac  smooth  his  speech. 

His  breath's  like  caller  air ; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't, 
As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  1 
And  will  I  hear  him  speak"? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, — 
In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house. 

There's  nae  luck  ava' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house, 
Wlien  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

The  cauld  blasts  o'  the  winter's  wind. 

That  thirled  through  my  heart, 
They're  a'  blawn  by,  I  hae  him  safe, 

Till  death  we'll  never  part. 
But  what  puts  parting  i'  my  heid  1 

It  may  be  far  awa' ; 
The  present  moment  is  our  own, 
The  neist  we  never  saw. 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house. 

There's  nae  luck  ava' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 
When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

Since  Colin's  weel,  I'm  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave ; 
Could  I  but  live  to  mak'  him  blest, 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave : 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  7 
And  will  I  hear  him  speak  1 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, — 
In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  ava' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house, 
When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  371 

Mr.  Chambers  may  well  call  this  song  "  the  fairest  flower  in 
Mickle's  poetical  chaplet."  Many  a  laureled  bard  might  have 
proudly  owned  such  a  ballad. 

P.S.  I  was  reading  this  song  to  a  friend,  as  well  as  a  tonguo 
not  Scottish  would  let  me,  while  an  intelligent  young  person,  be- 
low the  rank  that  is  called  a  lady,  sat  at  work  in  the  room.  She 
smiled  as  I  concluded,  and  said,  half  to  herself,  "  Singing  that 
song  got  my  sister  a  husband  !" 

"  Is  she  so  fine  a  singer  ?"  inquired  my  friend. 

"  No,  ma'am,  not  a  fine  singer  at  all ;  only  somehow  every 
body  likes  to  hear  her,  because  she  seems  to  feel  the  words  she 
sings,  and  so  makes  other  people  feel  them.  But  it  was  her 
choosing  that  song  that  won  William's  love.  He  said  that  a 
woman  who  put  so  much  heart  into  the  description  of  a  wife's 
joy  at  greeting  her  husband  home  again,  would  be  sure  to  make 
a  good  wife  herself.  And  so  she  does.  There  never  was  a 
happier  couple.     It  has  been  a  lucky  song  for  them,  I  am  sure." 

Now  it  seems  to  me  that  this  true  story  is  worth  all  the  criti- 
cisms in  the  world,  both  on  this  particular  ballad,  and  on  the 
manner  of  singing  ballads  in  general.  Let  the  poet  and  his  song- 
stress only  put  heart  into  them,  and  the  lady,  at  least,  sees  her 
reward. 


liECOLLECTlONS    OF 


XXIX. 

AUTHORS  ASSOCIATED  WITH  PLACES. 


JOHN    KENYON. 


Ik  one  of  Mr.  Kenyon's  charming  volumes,  there  is  a  slight  and 
graceful  poem,  addressed  to  Mary  Anning,  of  Lyme  Regis,  the 
first  discoverer  of  the  Saurian  remains  for  which  that  picturesque 
coast  is  now  so  famous,  which  has  for  me  an  interest  quite  dis- 
tinct from  literature  or  geology.  In  that  old  historical  town,  so 
deeply  interwoven  with  the  tragedy  of  Monmouth  and  the  tri- 
umph of  William  III.,  that  old  town  so  finely  placed  on  the  very 
line  where  Dorsetshire  and  Devonshire  meet,  I  spent  the  eventful 
year  when  the  careless  happiness  of  childhood  vanished,  and  the 
troubles  of  the  world  first  dimly  dawned  upon  my  heart — felt  in 
its  efil^cts  rather  than  known — felt  in  its  chilling  gloom,  as  we 
feel  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  that  passes  over  the  sun  on  an  April 
day. 

My  dear  mother,  the  only  surviving  child  of  a  richly  beneficed 
clergyman,  had  been  for  her  station  and  for  those  times  what 
might  be  called  an  heiress,  and  when  she  married  my  father, 
brought  him,  besides  certain  property  in  house  and  land,  a  por- 
tion in  money  of  eight-and-twenty  thousand  pounds.  He  himself, 
the  younger  son  of  an  old  family,  with  a  medical  education  as 
good  as  the  world  could  afford,  a  graduate  of  Edinburgh,  a  house 
pupil  of  John  Hunter,  and  personally  all  that  attracts  the  sex — 
clever,  handsome,  young  and  gay,  had  won  her  heart  almost 
without  design  when  he  came  to  settle  to  his  profession  in  the 
little  Hampshire  town  where  after  the  death  of  both  parents  she 
had  taken  up  her  abode,  and  was  easily  persuaded  by  friends 
more  worldly-wise  than  he  to  address  himself  to  a  lady  who,  al- 
though ten  years  his  senior,  had  eveiy  recommendation  that  heart 
could  desire — except  beauty.     So  they  married.     She  full  of  con- 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  373 

fiding  love  refused  every  settlement  beyond  two  hundred  a-year 
pin-money,  out  of  his  own  property,  on  which  he  insisted  ;  and 
he  justified  her  choice  by  invariable  kindness  and  affection,  an 
affection  that  knew  no  intermission-  from  her  wedding-day  to  the 
day  of  her  death,  and  by  every  manly  and  generous  quality,  ex- 
cepting that  which  is  so  necessary  to  stability  and  comfort  in  this 
work-a-day  world — the  homely  quality  called  prudence.  Inde- 
pendent to  a  fault,  frank  in  speech  and  rash  in  act,  a  zealous  and 
Tincompromising  Whig,  in  those  days  when  Whiggery  was  some- 
times called  sedition  and  sometimes  treason,  he  first  ruined  his 
fair  professional  prospects  in  a  place  where  he  was  known  and 
loved,  by  plunging  into  the  fervent  hatreds  of  a  hotly  contested 
county  election  ;  and  then,  when  he  had  removed  into  Berkshire, 
contrived  by  some  similar  outbreak  to  afi'ront  and  alienate  a  rich 
cousin,  of  whom  my  mother  was  the  declared  heir,  and  who, 
after  being  violently  angry  with  her  for  marrying,  and  with  me 
for  being  a  girl,  had  been  propitiated  by  my  bearing  the  magic 
name  of  Russell ;  and  might  perhaps  have  again  relented  had  he 
not  died  within  a  few  months,  just  after  leaving  his  money  to  a 
child  whom  he  had  never  seen,  who  had  not  even  the  baptismal 
Russell  to  recommend  him.  Then  in  his  new  residence  he  got 
into  some  feud  with  that  influential  body  the  corporation  ;  and 
whether  impatient  of  professional  restraints,  or  of  the  slow  pro- 
gress of  a  physician's  fortunes,  he  attempted  to  increase  his  own 
resources  by  the  aid  of  cards  (he  was  unluckily  one  of  the  finest 
whist-players  in  England),  or  by  that  other  terrible  gambling, 
which  assumes  so  many  forms,  and  bears  so  many  names,  but 
which,  even  when  called  by  its  milder  term  of  S2')eculation,  is 
that  terrible  thing  gambling  still ;  whatever  might  be  the  man- 
ner of  the  loss — or  whether,  as  afterward  happened,  his  own 
large-hearted  hospitality  and  too-confiding  temper  were  alone  to 
blame — for  the  detail  was  never  known  to  me,  nor  do  I  think  it 
was  known  to  my  mother  ;  he  did  not  tell,  and  we  could  not  ask 
— whatever  the  actual  cause,  it  seems  to  me  certain  that  about 
this  time  nearly  all  of  his  own  paternal  property,  except  the  re- 
served pin-money,  and  much  of  my  mother's  fortune,  was  in  some 
way  sunk. 

Under  these  circumstances,  just  as  a  remarkable  cure  was 
beginning  to  make  his  medical  talent  advantageously  known,  he 
resolved  to  remove  to  Lyme,  feeling  with  characteristic  sanguine- 


O  I  4  R  E  C  O  L  L  K  C  T  IONS    OF 

iii-ss  that  in  a  trcsh  place  success  would  be  certain.  How  often 
in  after-life  lias  that  sanguine  spirit,  which  clung  to  him  to  his 
last  hour,  mailc  me  tremble  and  shiver.  I  had  seen  him  so  often 
disappointed,  that  it  seemed-  to  me  that  what  he  expected  could 
never  come  to  pass  ;  and  such,  I  think,  is  the  natural  elTect  pro- 
duced on  all  around  by  an  ovor-sanguine  spirit.  Even  Hope  has 
never  been  so  truly  characterized  as  by  the  great  poet  in  his  tine 
personification,  "  Fear  and  trembling  Hope  ;"  and  I  saw  the  other 
day  a  beautiful  copy  of  the  celebrated  picture  known  as  Guido's 
Hope,  in  which  the  expression  is  that  of  intense  melancholy. 
That  lovely  face  looked  as  if  listening  to  prognostics  that  were  not 
to  be  fulfilled. 

Well,  we  removed  to  Lyme  Regis.  The  house  my  father  took 
there  was,  as  commonly  happens  to  people  whose  fortunes  are  de- 
clining, far  more  splendid  than  any  we  had  ever  inhabited,  indeed 
the  very  best  in  the  town.  It  was  situated  about  the  middle  of 
the  principal  street,  and  had  been  during  two  or  three  seasons 
some  twenty  years  before  rented  by  the  great  Lord  Chatham  for 
the  use  of  his  two  sons,  the  second  Earl  and  William  Pitt,  at  the 
time  that  we  occupied  it  Prirne  Minister  of  England.  Hayley,  in 
his  Autobiography,  mentions  having  seen  the  youths  there.  The 
house,  built  of  the  beautiful  gray  stone  of  the  Isle  of  Portland,  had 
a  great  extent  of  frontage,  terminating  by  large  gates  surmounted 
by  spread  eagles,  probably  the  crest  of  some  former  proprietor. 
An  old  stone  porch,  with  benches  on  either  side,  projected  from 
the  center,  covered,  as  was  the  whole  front  of  the  house,  with 
tall,  spreading,  wide-leafed  myrtle,  abounding  in  blossom,  with 
moss-roses,  jessamine,  and  passion-flowers.  Behind  the  buildings, 
extended  round  a  paved  quadrangle,  was  the  drawing-room,  a 
splendid  apartment,  of  which  the  chimney-piece  was  surmounted 
by  a  copy  in  marble  of  Shakspeare's  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
looking  upon  a  little  lawn  surrounded  by  choice  evergreens,  par- 
ticularly the  bay,  the  cedar,  and  the  arbutus,  and  terminated  by 
an  old-fashioned  green-house  and  a  filbert-tree  walk,  from  which 
again  three  detached  gardens  sloped  abruptly  down  to  one  of  the 
clear  dancing  rivulets  of  that  western  country,  reflecting  in  its 
small  broken  stream  a  low  hedge  of  myrtle  and  roses.  In  the 
steep  declivity  of  the  central  garden  was  a  grotto,  over-arching  a 
cool,  sparkling  spring,  while  the  slopes  on  either  side  were  car- 
peted with  strawberries  and  dotted  with  fruit-trees.     One  droop- 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  375 

ing  medlar,  beneath  whose  pendant  branches  I  have  often  hidden, 
I  remember  well. 

Dearly  as  I  have  loved  my  two  later  homes,  I  have  never  seen 
any  thing  like  that  garden.  It  did  not  seem  a  place  to  be  sad 
in  ;  neither  did  the  house,  with  its  large,  lofty  rooms,  its  noble 
oaken  stair-cases,  its  marble  hall,  and  the  long  galleries  and  corri- 
dors, echoing  from  morning  to  night  with  gay  visitors,  cousins 
from  the  North,  friends  from  Hampshire  and  Berkshire,  and  the 
ever-shifting  company  of  the  old  watering-place.  One  incident 
that  occurred  there — a  frightful  danger — a  providential  escape — 
I  shall  never  forget. 

There  was  to  be  a  ball  at  the  Rooms,  and  a  party  of  sixteen  or 
eighteen  persons  dressed  for  the  assembly  were  sitting  in  the 
dining-room,  at  dessert.  The  ceiling  was  ornamented  with  a  rich 
running  pattern  of  flowers  in  high  relief,  the  shape  of  the  wreath 
corresponding  pretty  exactly  with  the  company  arranged  round 
the  oval  table.  Suddenly — whether  from  the  action  of  the  steam 
of  the  dinner  upon  the  plaster,  or  from  the  movement  of  the  ser- 
vants in  the  room,  or  from  some  one  passing  quickly  overhead, 
was  never  discovered — but  in  one  instant,  without  the  slightest 
warning,  all  that  part  of  the  ceiling  which  covered  the  assembled 
company  became  detached,  and  fell  down  in  large  masses  upon 
the  table  and  the  floor.  It  seems  even  now  all  but  miraculous 
how  such  a  catastrophe  could  occur  without  injury  to  life  or 
limb — for  the  portions  of  molded  plaster,  although  much  broken 
in  their  descent,  were  thick  and  heavy,  and  the  height  of  the 
apartment  very  considerable  ;  but  except  the  bald  head  of  one 
venerable  clerg^'man,  which  was  a  little  scratched,  the  only 
things  damaged  were  the  flowers  and  feathers  of  the  ladies,  and 
the  crystal  and  china,  the  fruits  and  wines  of  the  dessert.  I  my- 
self caught  instantly  in  my  father's  arms,  by  whose  side  I  was 
standing,  had  scarcely  even  time  to  be  frightened,  although  after 
the  danger  was  over,  our  fair  visitors  of  course  began  to  scream. 

My  own  nurseries  were  spacious  and  airy.  But  next  to  the 
magnificent  room  in  which  my  grandfather's  fine  library  was  ar- 
ranged, and  which,  save  a  very  few  favorite  volumes,  remained 
there,  to  be  disposed  in  the  chances  of  an  auction,  next  to  the 
book-room,  always  my  favorite  haunt  in  every  house,  the  place 
which  I  most  affected  was  a  dark  paneled  chamber  on  the  first 
floor,  to  which  I  descended  through  a  private  door  by  half  a  dozen 


o7(3  KECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

stairs,  so  steep,  tliat,  still  a  very  small  ami  puny  child  between 
eijrht  and  a  hall"  to  nine  and  a  half,  and  unable  to  run  down  them 
in  the  cominon  way,  I  used  to  jump  from  one  step  to  the  other. 
This  chamber  was  filled  with  such  fossils  as  were  then  known, 
for  the  great  landslip  at  Charniouth  had  not  then  laid  bare  the 
geological  treasures  of  the  place,  t^till  it  was  rich  in  specimens 
of  petrifactions  of  various  kinds,  in  glittering  spars,  in  precious-look- 
ing ores,  in  curious  shells  and  gigantic  sea- weeds ;  some  the  cher- 
ished products  of  my  own  discoveries,  and  some  broken  for  me  by 
my  father's  little  hammer  from  portions  of  rock  that  lay  beneath 
the  dill's  under  which  almost  every  fine  day  we  used  to  ramble 
hand  in  hand. 

k>ometimes  we  would  go  toward  Charmouth,  with  its  sweeping 
bay  passing  under  the  church  and  church-yard,  perched  so  high 
above  us,  and  already  undermined  by  the  tide  ;  at  another,  we 
bent  our  steps  to  the  Pinny  cliHs  on  the  other  side  of  the  harbor, 
those  dark  beetling  clifis  from  whose  lofty  tops  little  streams  of 
fresh  water  fell  in  slender  cascades,  finding  their  narrow  way 
across  the  sands  to  the  sea ;  the  beautiful  Pinny  clifis,  where, 
about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  town,  an  old  landslip  had  de- 
posited a  farm-house,  with  its  outbuildings,  its  garden,  and  its 
orchard,  tossed  half-way  down  among  the  rocks,  contrasting  so 
strangely  its  rich  and  blossoming  vegetation,  its  look  of  home  and 
of  comfort,  with  the  dark  rugged  masses  above,  below,  and 
around.  Sometimes,  at  high  water,  we  paced  the  old  pier  called 
the  Cob,  to  which  Miss  Austen  has  since  given  such  an  interest. 
And  sometimes  we  turned  inland,  and  ascended  the  hill  to  Up- 
Lyme,  with  its  tufted  orchards  and  its  pretty  streamlets.  I  used  to 
disdain  those  streamlets  in  those  days  with  such  scorn  as  a  small 
damsel  fresh  from  the  Thames  and  the  Kennett  thinks  herself 
privileged  to  display.  "  They  call  that  a  river  here,  papa  I 
Can't  you  jump  me  over  it?"  quoth  I,  in  my  sauciness.  About 
a  month  ago  I  heard  a  young  lady  from  New  York  talking  in 
some  such  strain  of  Father  Thames.  "  It's  a  pretty  little  stream," 
said  she,  "  but  to  call  it  a  river  I"  and  I  half  expected  to  hear  a 
complete  reproduction  of  my  own  impertinence,  and  a  request  to 
be  jumped  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  Caversham  bridge. 

Once,  too,  from  the  highest  story  of  our  own  house,  I  saw  that 
fine  and  awful  spectacle,  a  great  storm.  My  father  took  me  from 
my  bed  at  midnight,  that  I  might  see  the  grandeur  and  the  gloiy 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  377 

of  the  tempest,  the  spray  rising  to  the  very  tops  of  the  chfis,  pale 
and  ghastly  in  the  lightning,  and  hear  the  roar  of  the  sea,  the 
moaning  of  the  wind,  the  roll  of  the  thunder,  and,  among  them 
all,  the  fearful  sound  of  the  minute-guns,  telling  of  death  and 
danger  on  that  iron-bound  coast. 

This  was  the  one  exception  to  the  general  brightness  of  that 
lovely  bay,  and  it  passed  by  me  like  a  dream.  For  the  most 
part,  all  was  beauty  on  every  side  ;  the  sunshine  seemed  reflected 
from  the  rich  valleys  and  the  glorious  sea ;  and  the  people  of  the 
little  port,  the  thriving  peasantry,  and  the  bustling  seamen,  had  a 
peculiar  air  of  cheerfulness  and  comfort.  It  was  a  strange  place 
to  be  sad  in. 

And  yet  sad  I  was.  Nobody  told  me,  but  I  felt,  I  knew,  I  had 
an  interior  conviction,  for  which  I  could  not  have  accounted,  that 
in  the  midst  of  all  this  natural  beauty  and  apparent  happiness,  in 
spite  of  the  company,  in  spite  of  the  gayety,  something  was  wrong. 
It  was  such  a  foreshowing  as  makes  the  quicksilver  in  the  barom- 
eter sink  while  the  weather  is  still  bright  and  clear. 

And  at  last  the  change  came.  My  father  went  again  to  Lon- 
don ;  and  lost — I  think,  I  have  always  thought  so — more  money ; 
all,  perhaps,  except  that  positively  settled  upon  my  mother,  and 
a  legacy  of  rather  smaller  amount  left  to  me  by  the  maiden  sister 
of  the  angry  cousin.  Then,  one  by  one,  our  visitors  departed  ; 
and  my  father,  who  had  returned  in  haste  again,  in  equal  haste 
left  home,  after  short  interviews  with  landlords,  and  lawyers,  and 
auctioneers  ;  and  I  knew — I  can't  tell  how,  but  I  did  know — that 
every  thing  was  to  be  parted  with,  and  every  body  paid. 

That  same  night  two  or  three  large  chests  were  carried  away 
through  the  garden,  by  George  and  another  old  servant,  and  a 
day  or  two  after,  my  mother  and  myself,  with  Mrs.  More,  the 
good  housekeeper,  who  lived  with  my  grandfather  before  his 
marriage,  and  one  other  maid-servant,  left  Lyme  in  a  hack  chaise. 
We  were  to  travel  post.  But  in  the  general  trouble  nobody  had 
remembered  that  some  camp  was  breaking  up  between  Bridport 
and  Dorchester,  so  that  when  we  reached  the  latter  town  we 
found,  to  our  consternation,  that  there  was  neither  room  for  us  at 
any  inn,  nor  chaise,  nor  horses  to  pursue  our  journey.  All  that 
could  be  done  for  us,  after  searching  through  the  place,  was  a 
conveyance  in  a  vehicle  which  was  going  seven  or  eight  miles 
our  way,  and  from  whence  there  was  a  prospect  of  our  getting  on 


37S  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

in  the  morniiip.  This  machine  turned  out  to  be  a  sort  of  tilted 
cart,  without  springs,  and  the  jolting  upon  the  Dorsetsliire  roads 
fifty-live  years  ago  was  doubtless  something  sufficiently  uncom- 
fortable. The  discipline  of  travel  teaches  people  to  think  little 
of  temporary  inconveniences  now-a-days,  and  doubtless  many  a 
fine  lady  would  laugh  at  such  a  shift.  But  it  was  not  as  a  tem- 
porary discomfort  that  it  came  upon  my  poor  mother.  It  was 
her  first  touch  of  poverty.  It  seemed  like  a  final  parting  from  all 
the  elegances  and  all  the  accommodations  to  which  she  had  been 
used.  I  never  shall  forget  her  heart-broken  look  when  she  took 
her  little  girl  upon  her  lap  in  that  jolting  caravan  (so,  for  the 
more  grace,  they  called  the  vehicle),  nor  how  the  tears  stood  in 
her  eyes  when  we  were  turned  all  together  into  our  miserable 
bed-room  when  we  reached  the  road-side  ale-house,  where  we 
were  to  pass  the  night,  and  found  ourselves,  instead  of  the  tea  we 
so  much  needed,  condemned  to  sup  on  stale  bread  and  dirty 
cheese,  as  people  who  arrive  in  tilted  carts  have  been  and  will  be 
to  the  end  of  the  world. 

The  next  day  we  resumed  our  journey,  and  reached  a  dingy, 
comfortless  lodging  in  one  of  the  suburbs  beyond  Westminster 
Bridge.  What  my  father's  plans  were  I  do  not  exactly  know ; 
probably  to  gather  together  what  disposable  money  still  remained 
after  paying  all  debts  from  the  sale  of  books,  plate,  and  furniture 
at  Lyme,  and  thence  to  proceed  (backed  up  by  his  greatly  les- 
sened income)  to  practice  in  some  distant  town.  At  all  events 
London  was  the  best  starting-place,  and  he  could  consult  his  old 
fellow-pupil  and  life-long  friend.  Dr.  Babington,  then  one  of  the 
physicians  to  Guy's  Hospital,  and  refresh  his  medical  studies  with 
experiments  and  lectures,  while  determining  in  what  place  to  be- 
stow himself. 

In  the  mean  while  his  spirits  returned  as  buoyant  as  ever,  and 
so,  now  that  fear  had  changed  into  certainty,  did  mine.  In  the 
intervals  of  his  professional  pursuits  he  walked  about  London  with 
his  little  girl  in  his  hand  ;  and  one  day  (it  was  my  birth-day,  and 
I  was  ten  years  old)  he  took  me  into  a  not  very  tempting-looking 
place,  which  was,  as  I  speedily  found,  a  lottery  office.  An  Irish 
lottery  was  upon  the  point  of  being  drawn,  and  he  desired  me 
to  choose  one  out  of  several  bits  of  printed  paper  (I  did  not  then 
know  their  significance)  that  lay  upon  the  counter  : 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  379 

"  Choose  which  number  you  like  best,"  said  the  dear  papa, 
"  and  that  shall  be  your  birth-day  present." 

I  immediately  selected  one,  and  put  it  into  his  hand  :  No. 
2,224. 

"  Ah,"  said  my  father,  examining  it,  "  you  must  choose  again. 
J  want  to  buy  a  whole  ticket  ;  and  this  is  only  a  quarter. 
Choose  again,  my  pet." 

"  No,  dear  papa,  I  like  this  one  best." 

"  Here  is  the  next  number,"  interposed  the  lottery  office  keep- 
er, "  No.  2,223." 

"  Ay,"  said  my  father,  "  that  will  do  just  as  well.  Will  it 
not,  Mary  ?     We'll  take  that." 

"  No  I"  returned  I,  obstinately;  "that  won't  do.  This  is 
my  birth-day  you  know,  papa,  and  I  am  ten  years  old.  Cast  up 
rmj  number,  and  you'll  find  that  makes  ten.  The  other  is  only 
nine." 

My  father,  superstitious  like  all  speculators,  was  struck  with 
my  pertinacity,  and  with  the  reason  I  gave,  which  he  liked  none 
the  less  because  the  ground  of  preference  was  tolerably  unreason- 
able, resisted  the  attempt  of  the  office  keeper  to  tempt  me  by 
different  tickets,  and  we  had  nearly  left  the  shop  without  a 
purchase,  when  the  clerk,  who  had  been  examining  different  desks 
and  drawers,  said  to  his  principal  : 

"  I  think.  Sir,  the  matter  may  be  managed  if  the  gentleman 
does  not  mind  paying  a  few  shillings  more.  That  ticket,  2,224, 
only  came  yesterday,  and  we  have  still  all  the  shares  ;  one  half, 
one  quarter,  one  eighth,  two  sixteenths.  It  will  be  just  the  same 
if  the  young  lady  is  set  upon  it." 

The  young  lady  was  set  upon  it,  and  the  shares  were  purchased. 

The  whole  affair  was  a  secret  between  us,  and  my  father 
whenever  he  got  me  to  himself  talked  over  our  future  twenty 
thousand  pounds — just  hke  Alnascher  over  his  basket  of  eggs. 

Meanwhile,  time  passed  on,  and  one  Sunday  morning  we  were 
all  preparing  to  go  to  church,  when  a  face  that  I  had  forgotten, 
but  my  father  had  not,  made  its  appearance.  It  was  the  clerk 
of  the  lottery  office.  An  express  had  just  arrived  fromi  Dublin, 
announcing  that  number  2,224  had  been  drawn  a  prize  of  twenty 
thousand  pounds,  and  he  had  hastened  to  communicate  the  good 
news. 

Ah,  me  I     In  less  than  twenty  years  what  was  left  of  the  pro- 


380  KKCOL LKCTIONS    OF 

ilnee  of  the  ticket  so  strangely  chosen  ?  What  ?  except  a 
\Vedgwood  dinner-service  that  my  father  had  had  made  to  com- 
memoiate  the  event,  with  the  Irish  harp  within  the  border  on 
one  side,  and  his  family  crest  on  the  other  !  That  fragile  and 
perishable  ware  long  outlasted  the  more  perishable  money  I 

And  then  came  long  years  of  toil,  and  struggle,  and  anxiety, 
and  jolting  over  the  rough  ways  of  the  world,  of  which  the  tilted 
cart  of  Dorchester  offers  a  feeble  type.  But  it  is  a  subject  of  in- 
tense thankfulness  that,  although  during  those  long  years  want 
often  came  very  close  to  our  door,  it  never  actually  entered  ;  and 
that  those  far  dearer  and  far  better  worth  than  I,  were  more  than 
once  saved  from  its  clutches  when  it  seemed  nearest,  by  some- 
thing even  more  fragile  and  less  durable  than  Mr.  Wedgwood's 
china  or  the  Irish  lottery  ticket. 

Among  the  consolations  and  encouragements  of  those  years, 
I  may  reckon  the  partial  kindness  of  the  late  excellent  Mrs.  Ken- 
yon,  for  it  is  to  her  fancy  for  my  poor  writings  that  I  owe  not 
only  her  own  highly-prized  friendship,  but  the  thousand  good  of- 
fices of  her  accomplished  husband. 

His  poems,  full  as  they  are  of  the  largest  and  most  liberal 
views,  of  refined  taste  and  of  harmonious  versification,  make  but 
a  small  part  of  his  reputation.  I  think  he  intends  to  publish 
them,  but  he  does  actually  disperse  them  among  his  friends  be- 
fore the  public  has  time  to  find  them  out,  so  that  they  have  the 
grace,  frankness,  and  rarity  of  gift-books  ;  and  his  hospitality,  his 
benevolence,  and  his  conversational  power  are  far  better  known 
than  his  verse. 

Now  this  verse  has  to  me  a  singular  charm,  particularly  "  The 
Rhymed.  Plea  for  Tolerance,"  which  is  so  clear,  so  scholarly,  and 
so  full  of  strong,  manly  sense.  Only  see  in  how  short  a  space  he 
gives  a  history  of  English  morals,  or  perhaps,  to  speak  more  accu- 
rately, of  the  morals  of  English  literature,  from  the  Common- 
wealth to  the  first  French  Revolution. 

When  lofty  Charles  and  ancient  Privilege 
Of  new-mailed  liberty  first  felt  the  siege, 
Then  first  Old  England  rather  groaned  than  sang 
With  godly  hymns  and  Barebones'  nasal  twang. 
But  then  not  less  the  godless  cavalier 
Flung  his  loose  ballad  on  the  offended  ear ; 
And  still,  for  so  extremes  extremes  provoke, 
Marked  the  prim  preachment  witli  the  ribald  joke. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  381 

A  following  century  struck  a  wiser  mean  ; 

The  mass  was  then  more  cheerful,  but  more  clean. 

Yet  then  iin prudish  Addison  could  win, 

Then  Pope  deemed  raillery  unstamped  no  sin ; 

Then  scornful  Swift  could  frolic  with  free  touch, 

And  Peachum  pleased  a  race  that  robbed  not  much. 

Some  even  have  played  with  Congreve's  comic  lyre, 

Nor  felt  the  tinder  temperament  take  fire. 

War  with  pretense  satiric  Fielding  waged, 
Yet  thousands  read  of  Blifil  unenraged ; 
(For  least  who  feign  are  least  by  banter  crossed, 
'Tis  doubtful  titles  stir  the  passions  most;) 
And  follies  forth,  and  forth  e'en  vices  streamed, 
Yet  Man  meanwhile  was  better  than  he  seemed. 

Then  too  our  Second  George,  not  overstaid, 
Would  lead  his  court  to  merry  masquerade, 
And  if  the  mask  chance-vices  covered  there, 
'Twas  not,  as  'neath  the  Third,  life's  daily  wear. 

And  Puritans  extinct  had  ceased  to  rage 
And  vex  with  holy  war  the  graceful  stage ; 
And  then  if  Constance,  or  discrowned  Lear, 
Had  roused  some  loftier  throb  or  deeper  tear ; 
Or  sweet  Miranda's  purest  womanhood 
Touched  the  fine  sense  of  Beautiful  and  Good  ; 
Or  glorious  FalstafF,  rosiest  son  of  earth, 
Shook  from  his  sides  immeasurable  mirth  ; 
Or  free  Autolycus,  as  nature  free, 
Had  won  to  bear  his  rogueries  for  his  glee ; 
Even  then — no  follower  of  play-scourging  Prynne 
Denounced,  as  now,  the  sympathy  for  sin. 

And  then — though  Wesley,  strong  in  fervent  youth, 
Strong  in  man's  weakness,  strong  in  his  own  truth. 
Followers  ere  long  drew  round  him,  Hope  and  Fear, 
Rueful  Pretense  and  Penitence  sincere ; 
Votaries  the  most  with  little  to  resign. 
Rude  audience  from  the  workshop  or  the  mine ; 
And  though  erewhile  at  Pride's  or  Faith's  command, 
Some  titled  Dowager  would  head  the  band  ; 
(For  stimulants  still  charm  fair  devotee. 
Chapel  for  church,  for  writ  extempore;) 
And  though  a  court  more  decent  than  before, 
With  cowl  and  hood  court-vices  covered  o'er, 
And  cast  from  Windsor's  towers  a  monkish  gloom  ; 
Yet  Frankness  still  had  gonial  air  and  room. 
Free  in  the  main  to  pray,  or  sport  at  will,— 
And  our  dear  land  was  "  merry  England"  still. 


3S2  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

But  when,  as  clianced,  from  limbs  and  wearied  veins, 

Fiance,  slavery  stung,  burst  body  bonds  and  chains; 

Some  wore  rejoiced;  some  doubted  ;  some  were  sad; 

But  all  at  length  allowed  her  Freedom  mad  ;  ». 

Most  for  our  own  proclaimed  a  muzzle  right. 

Some  would  have  slain,  so  much  they  feared  the  bite. 

The  danger,  seen  through  mist,  loomed  large  and  near, 

And  Reason,  Principles,  were  lost  in  Fear. 

Then  ancient  statesmen  took  their  daily  range 

Round  one  small  spot,  and  shuddering  talked  of  change ; 

Or,  niched,  discreet,  behind  Prescription's  shield, 

In  his  own  wrong  urged  Valor  to  the  field. 

Wealth,  'mid  his  coffers,  feared  the  approaching  war, 

And  ribboned  Title  trembled  for  his  star ; 

Vague  iinused  terrors  crept  upon  the  brave. 

And  scarce  the  scornful  Bar  its  scorn  could  save. 

The  ready  Pulpit  joined  the  Statesman's  game, 

And  Freedom  walked  our  British  soil  in  shame. 

Then  folloAVs  a  magnificent  character  of  Burke,  proving  how 
just  Mr.  Kenj'on  can  be  to  real  greatness  in  eveiy  shade  of  opin- 
ion. The  following  stanza,  from  a  beautiful  poem  called  "  Upper 
Austria,"  has  the  same  rare  merit  of  fairness  and  candor 

0  Liberty  !  thou  sacred  name 

AVhate'er  reproach  may  thee  befall. 
From  judgment  just  or  spiteful  blame. 

To  thee  I  cling,  on  thee  I  call. 

And  yet  thou  art  not  all  in  all ; 
And  e'en  where  thou  art  worshiped  less, 

In  spite  of  check,  in  spite  of  thrall, 
Content  may  spring  and  liappiness. 

The  spirited  and  original  anacreontic,  entitled  "  Champagne 
Rose,"  was  composed  under  very  peculiar  circumstances.  Having 
improvised,  while  looking  at  the  bubbles  upon  a  glass  of  pink 
champagne,  the  exceedingly  happy  line  that  begins  the  song,  Mr. 
Kenyon  was  challenged  to  complete  it  on  the  spot.  He  under- 
took to  do  so  within  twenty  minutes,  and  accomplished  his  task, 
as  very  few  besides  himself  could  have  done. 

Lily  on  liquid  roses  floating — 
So  floats  yon  foam  o'er  pink  Champagne — 

Fain  would  I  join  such  pleasant  boating, 
And  prove  that  ruby  main. 
Floating  away  on  wine  ! 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  383 

Those  seas  are  dangerous,  graybeards  swear, 

Whose  sea-beach  is  the  goblet's  brim ; 
And  true  it  is  they  drown  old  Care, 

But  what  care  we  for  him, 
So  we  but  float  on  wine  ! 

And  true  it  is  they  cross  in  pain 

Who  sober  cross  the  Stj-gian  ferry; 
But  only  make  our  Styx  Champagne, 

And  we  shall  cross  right  merry, 
Floating  away  on  wine  ! 

Old  Charon's  self  shall  make  him  mellow, 

Then  gayly  row  his  boat  from  shore ; 
While  we  and  every  jovial  fellow 

Hear  unconcerned  the  oar, 
That  dips  itself  in  wine  ! 

The  charming  stanzas  with  which  I  conclude  my  extracts  form 
part  of  a  poem  written  to  illustrate  an  engraving  in  Finden's 
Tableaux  ;  one  of  the  many  kindnesses  which  I  owe  to  Mr. 
Kenyon.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  verse  more  melodious,  or 
more  pure. 

THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  VIRGIN. 

Who  knows  not,  fair  Sicilian  land  ! 
How  proudly  thou  wert  famed  of  yore 
AVhen  all  the  Muses  hymned  thy  strand, 
And  pleased  to  tread  so  sweet  a  shore. 
Bacchus  and  Ceres,  hand  in  hand, 
To  thee  tlieir  choicest  treasures  bore, 
And  saw  upreared  their  graceful  shrines, 
'Mid  waving  corn  and  curling  vines. 

Yes !    land  thou  wert  of  fruits  and  flowers. 
The  favored  land  of  Deity  ; 
By  Jove  made  glad  with  suns  and  showers. 
By  Neptune  cheered  with  brightest  sea  ; 
E'en  Dis,  beneath  his  gloomy  bov/ers, 
Had  heard  and  loved  to  dream  of  thee, 
And  when  he  willed  to  take  a  bride, 
Snatched  her  from  Ennar's  sloping  side. 

Those  hollow  creeds  have  passed  away. 
Those  false,  if  graceful,  .xhrines  are  gone  ; 
A  purer  faith,  of  stricter  sway, 
For  our  behoof  their  place  hath  won ; 


SS-i  RKCOI. LECTIONS    OF 

Ami  Chrisfian  altars  overlay 
Yon  tenijjlc's  okl  Coundation  stoiic  ; 
And  in  Minerva's*  vacant  cell 
Sublimcst  wisdom  deigns  to  dwell. 

And  where,  within  some  deep  shy  wood, 

And  seen  but  half  through  curving  bough, 

In  silent  marble  Dian  stood, 

Behold  !  a  holier  Virgin  now 

Hath  sanctified  the  solitude  ; 

And  thou,  meek  Mary-Mother !  thou 

Dost  hallow  each  old  Pagan  spot. 

Or  storied  stream,  or  fabled  grot ! 

The  devious  pilgrim,  far  beguiled, 
How  gladly  doth  he  turn  to  greet 
Thy  long-sought  image,  'mid  the  wild 
A  calming  thought,  a  vision  sweet. 
If  grief  be  his  then,  Lady  mild  ! 
Thy  gentle  aid  we  will  entreat. 
And  bowed  in  heart,  not  less  than  deed, 
Findeth  a  prayer  to  fit  the  need. 

There,  while  his  secret  soul  he  bares, 
That  lonely  altar  bending  by, 
The  traveler  passing  unawares. 
Shall  stay  his  step,  but  not  too  nigh. 
And  hearkening  to  those  unforced  prayers, 
Albeit  the  creed  he  may  deny, 
Shall  own  his  reason  less  averse. 
And  spirit  surely  not  the  worse. 

Thy  shrines  are  lovely,  wheresoe'er, 
And  yet,  if  it  were  mine  to  choose 
One,  loveliest,  where  fretted  lore 
Might  come  to  rest,  or  thought  to  muse, 
'Twould  be  that  one,  so  soft  and  fair. 
That  standeth  by  old  Syracuse : 
Just  where  those  salt-sea  waters  take 
The  likeness  of  an  inland  lake. 

Green  tendriled  plants,  in  many  a  ring 
Creep  round  the  gray  stone  tenderly. 
As  though  in  very  love  to  cling 
And  clasp  it ;    while  the  reverent  sea 
A  fond  up-looking  wave  doth  bring 
To  break  anon  submissively; 

*  The  present  cathedral  of  Syracuse  was  formerly  a  temple  of  Minerva. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  385 

As  if  it  came  that  brow  to  greet, 
Then  whisper  praise  beneath  thy  feet. 


I  love  thee  ever.     Opeu  door 

That  welcomes  to  the  house  of  God ! 

I  love  the  wide-spread  marble  floor,  • 

By  every  foot  in  freedom  trod ! 

Free  altars  let  me  bow  before, 

Free  as  the  pathway  or  the  sod. 

Whence  journeying  pilgrim,  'mid  broad  air, 

Wafts  unpremeditated  prayer. 

I  wish  more  people  would  write  such  lucid  and  melodious 
verse  ;  but  I  have  a  suspicion  that  among  the  many  who  call 
themselves  poets,  there  are  very  few  indeed  who  can. 

R 


886  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


XXX. 

AUTHORS   ASSOCIATED    WITH   PLACES. 

THOMAS    CHATTERTON ROBERT    SOUTHEY SAMUEL    TAYLOR 

COLERIDGE WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 

From  Bath  we  proceeded  to  Bristol,  or  rather  to  Clifton,  trav- 
ersing the  tunnels  this  time  with  as  gay  a  confidence  as  I  should 
do  now.  Of  Bath,  its  buildings  and  its  scenery,  I  had  heard  much 
good  ;  of  Bristol,  its  dirt,  its  dinginess,  and  its  ugliness,  much 
evil.  Shall  I  confess — dare  I  confess,  that  I  was  charmed  with 
the  old  city  ?  The  tall,  narrow,  picturesque  dwellings  with  their 
quaint  gables  ;  the  wooden  houses  in  Wine-street,  one  of  which 
was  brought  from  Holland  bodily,  that  is  to  say  in  ready-made 
bits,  wanting  only  to  be  put  together  ;  the  courts  and  lanes  climb- 
ing like  ladders  up  the  steep  acclivities ;  the  hanging  gardens, 
said  to  have  been  given  by  Glueen  Elizabeth  to  the  washerwomen 
(every  thing  has  a  tradition  in  Bristol)  ;  the  bustling  quays  ;  the 
crowded  docks  ;  the  calm,  silent,  Dowry  Parade  (I  have  my  own 
reasons  for  loving  Dowry  Parade)  with  its  trees  growing  up 
between  the  pavement  like  the  close  of  a  cathedral ;  the  Avon 
flowing  between  those  two  exquisite  boundaries,  the  richly  tufted 
Leigh  Woods  clothing  the  steep  hillside,  and  the  grand  and  lofty 
St.  Vincent's  Rocks,  with  houses  perched  upon  the  summits  that 
looked  ready  to  fall  upon  our  heads  ;  the  airy  line  of  the  chain 
that  swung  from  tower  to  tower  of  the  intended  suspension  bridge, 
with  its  basket  hanging  in  mid  air  like  the  car  of  a  balloon, 
making  one  dizzy  to  look  at  it ; — formed  an  enchanting  picture. 
I  know  nothing  in  English  landscape  so  lovely  or  so  striking  as 
that  bit  of  the  Avon  beyond  the  Hot  Wells,  especially  when  the 
tide  is  in,  the  ferry-boat  crossing,  and  some  fine  American  ship 
steaming  up  the  river. 

As  to  Clifton,  I  suspect  that  m^  opinions  were  a  little  heretical 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  387 

in  that  quarter  also  ;  for  I  could  not  help  wishing  the  houses 
away  (not  the  inhabitants,  that  would  have  been  too  ungrateful), 
and  tlie  wide  open  downs  restored  to  their  primeval  space  and 
airiness.  How  delightful  must  the  Hot  Wells  have  been  then  ! 
and  how  much  greater  the  chance  of  recovery  for  invalids,  who 
could  add  the  temptation  of  such  a  spot  fur  rides  and  drives  to  the 
salubrity  of  the  waters  ! 

I  had  an  hereditary  interest  in  the  Hot  Wells  ;  my  own  mother 
having  accompanied  her  only  brother  thither  to  die.  It  was  one 
of  the  brief  romances  which  under  different  forms  most  families 
probably  could  tell  :  a  young  man  of  the  highest  promise,  a. 
Fellow  of  Oriel,  as  his  father  had  been  before  him,  and  just  en- 
tered of  Lincoln's  Inn,  who  galloped  to  Reading  after  dark  to 
dance  with  a  county  beauty,  and  returned  the  same  way  the  mo- 
ment the  ball  was  ended.  He  had  offered  his  hand  for  more  than 
the  evening  to  the  lady  of  his  love,  and  had  been  accepted.  But 
the  chill  of  a  snowy  winter  night,  after  such  exercise  and  such 
excitement,  struck  to  his  chest  ;  rapid  consumption  ensued,  and 
the  affianced  lovers  never  met  again.  It  is  often  the  best  and  the 
fairest  who  die  such  deaths.  Every  one  knows  Mason's  fine 
epitaph  on  his  young  M'ife  in  this  very  cathedral : 

Take,  holy  earth,  all  that  my  soul  holds  dear, 
Take  that  best  gift  which  Heaven  so  lately  gave ! 

To  Bristol's  fount  I  bore  with  trembling  care 
Her  faded  form  :  she  bowed  to  taste  the  wave 

And  died. 

The  first  place  that  I  visited  was  connected  with  a  far  deeper 
tragedy,  the  beautiful  church  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe.  I  climbed 
up  to  the  muniment  room  over  the  porch,  now  and  forever  fa- 
mous, and  sitting  down  on  the  stone  chest  then  empty,  where 
poor  Chatterton  pretended  to  have  found  the  various  writings  he 
attributed  to  Rowley,  and  from  whence  he  probably  did  obtain 
most  of  the  ancient  parchment  that  served  as  his  material,  I  could 
understand  the  effect  that  the  mere  habit  of  haunting  such  a 
chamber  might  produce  upon  a  sensitive  and  imaginative  boy. 
Even  in  that  rude  and  naked  room  the  majesty  and  grandeur  of 
the  magnificent  church  make  themselves  strongly  felt.  The  dim 
light,  the  massive  walls,  the  echoing  pavement  under  foot,  the 
vaulted  roof  overhead,  all   tend    to  produce  the  soiuuui  feeling 


388  RECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

peculiar  to  a  proat  ecclesiastical  edifice.  Even  the  two  moun- 
meiits  ol"  Caiinyiifre  down  below,  one  in  the  secular,  the  other  iu 
the  priestly  habit,  impress  upon  the  ruiud  the  imajjc  of  the 
muiiiticeut  jiatron  to  whom  St.  Mary  Redclili'e  owes  its  sublimity 
and  beauty.  The  forgeries  of  Cliatterton  will  always  remain 
among  the  wonders  of  genius  ;  but  they  become  less  incredible 
after  having  breathed  the  atmosphere  of  that  muniment  chamber. 
The  humbler  buildings  connected  with 

"  The  marvelous  boy 
Who  perished  in  his  pride," 

have  been  nearly  all  swept  away  by  the  barbarous  hand  of  Im- 
provement ;  but  every  one  whom  I  met  showed  me  some  site  or 
told  me  some  tradition  bearing  on  his  lamentable  story.  There 
his  father  taught  a  little  school  ;  there  he  was  born  ;  there  his 
widowed  mother  dwelt  :  one  person  shows  you  the  dress  of  the 
charity  boys  on  whose  foundation  he  was  placed  ;  another  recites 
to  you  the  verses  (quite  as  remarkable  as  the  juvenile  poems  of 
Pope  or  Cowley),  which  he  wrote  at  eleven  years  of  age  ;  a  third 
relates  anecdotes  of  the  attorney  to  whom  he  was  articled  ;  while 
a  fourth  produces  a  copy  of  the  newspaper  which  contained  his 
first  successful  attempt  at  deception, — the  description  of  the  cere- 
monies which  attended  the  first  passing  of  the  old  bridge  by  the 
Friars,  which  he  sent  to  a  Bristol  journal  upon  the  opening  of 
the  new.  After  this  the  number  of  forgeries,  antiquarian, 
heraldic  and  poetical,  was  astonishing.  Local  interest  was  en- 
gaged, and  personal  vanity.  The  beauty  of  the  poems  was  ac- 
knowledged on  all  hands  ;  and  had,  perhaps,  no  small  share  in 
the  general  credulity ;  for  it  seemed  easier  to  believe  in  the 
alledged  Rowley  than  to  assign  their  authorship  to  the  real  Chat- 
terton.  Nay,  even  to  this  hour,  one  of  the  most  accomplished 
men  whom  I  have  ever  known  (to  be  sure  he  has  no  objection  to 
a  paradox)  professes,  chiefly  on  this  ground,  his  entire  faith  in  the 
genuineness  of  the  manuscripts. 

Confident  in  his  own  powers,  and  full  of  proud  anticipation,  the 
luckless  boy  set  forth  for  London  ;  seized  on  every  word  of  praise 
as  an  earnest  of  fortune  ;  sent  nearly  all  his  poor  earnings  to  his 
mothers  and  sisters,  accompanied  by  letters  full  of  the  brightest 
hope  ;  and  at  last,  disenchanted,  maddened,  starved,  took  poison, 
and  was  interred  in  a  shell  in  the  burying-ground  belonging  to 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  389 

Shoe  Lane  work-house.  He  had  not  completed  his  eighteenth 
year.  There  is  a  story  told  that  a  little  before  his  death,  wander- 
ing in  St.  Pancras  church-yard,  he  fell  into  an  open  grave,  and 
seemed  to  seize  upon  it  as  an  omen.  A  most  painful  irreligious 
paper,  called  his  will,  written,  let  us  hope,  under  the  influence  of 
the  same  phrensy  that  prompted  his  suicide,  is  shown  in  a  glass 
case  in  the  museum  at  Bristol  ;  and  I  saw,  at  Mr.  Cottle's,  two 
very  interesting  relics  of  the  unhappy  writer  ;  the  Beryhem  (or, 
as  he  called  it,  de  Berghem)  pedigree,  one  of  his  earliest  forgeries, 
curiously  and  skillfully  emblazoned  ;  and  a  tattered  pocket-book, 
in  which  the  poor  boy  had  set  down  with  careful  exactness  the 
miserable  pittance  he  had  gained  by  writing  for  magazines  and 
newspapers  while  in  London,  a  pittance  so  wretched  as  to  render 
it  certain  that  utter  destitution,  utter  starvation  (although  witli 
characteristic  pride  he  had  refused  a  dinner  from  his  landlady  the 
day  before)  was  the  immediate  cause  of  the  catastrophe. 

In  spite  of  the  old  spelling,  the  fine  personification  of  Freedom 
in  the  chorus  of  "  Goddwyn"  makes  its  way  to  the  mind  : 

Whan  Freedom  dreste  yn  blodde-stayned  vests 

To  everie  knyghte  her  warre-songe  sunge, 
Uponne  her  hedde  wylde  wedes  were  spredde 
A  gorie  anlace  bye  her  honge. 

She  daunced  onne  the  heathc; 
She  hearde  the  voice  of  dcthe ; 
Pale  eyned  Aflfryghte  his  harte  of  sylver  hue 

In  vayne  assayled  her  bosome  to  acale. 
She  hearde  onflemed  the  shriekyngc  voice  of  Woe, 
And  sadnesse  ynne  the  ovvlette  shako  the  dale. 
She  shooke  the  burled  speero, 
On  higli  she  jeste  her  sheelde, 
Her  foemen  all  appcre 
And  flizze  alonge  the  fbelde. 

Modern  spelling,  and  a  very  little  transformalion,  would  make 
8  charming  pastoral  of  the  minstrel's  song  in  <Klla  : 

FIRST  MINSTREL. 

The  budding  flow'ret  blushes  at  the  liglit ; 

The  meads  are  sprinkled  with  their  yellowe.st  hue; 

In  daisied  mantle  is  tlic  mountain  dight ; 

The  tender  cowslip  bendeth  with  the  dew, 


390  R'E  COL  LECTIONS    OF 

The  pvoniiifr  comes  nn<l  brings  that  flow  along; 
Tlu»  nuMy  wi-lkin  sliiiR-th  to  the  eyne; 
Around  the  ale-stake  minstrels  shig  the  song. 
Young  ivy  round  the  door-post  to  entwine 
I  lay  me  on  tlie  grass.     Yet  to  my  will, 
Albeit  all  is  fair,  there  lacketh  something  still. 

SECOND  MLNSTREL. 

When  Autumn,  bleak  and  sunburnt,  doth  appear 

■With  golden  hand  gilding  the  falling  leaf, 

Bringing  up  Winter  to  fulfill  the  j'ear, 

Bearing  upon  his  back  the  ripened  sheaf;  / 

When  the  fair  apple,  red  as  evening  sky, 

Doth  bend  the  tree  unto  the  fruitful  ground ; 

When  juicy  pear  and  berrj'  of  black  dye 

Do  dance  in  air  and  tempt  the  taste  around ; 

Then  be  the  evening  foul  or  evening  fair. 

Mothinks  that  my  heart's  joy  is  shadowed  with  some  care. 

THIRD  MINSTREL. 

So  Adam  thought  when  first  in  Paradise 

All  heaven  and  earth  did  homage  at  his  feet ; 

In  gentle  woman  all  man's  pleasure  lies 

'Midst  Autumn's  beating  storms  or  summer's  heat: 

Go  take  a  wife  nnto  thy  heart  and  see 

AVinter  and  the  brown  hills  will  have  a  charm  for  thee. 

Remains  of  the  society  that  rendered  Clifton  illustrious  fifty 
years  ago  still  lingered  there  :  accomplished  relatives  of  the 
Kdf^eworths,  the  Beddoes's,  and  the  Porters.  The  Sketcher  of 
Blackwood,  eminent  as  artist  (amateur  artist  I)  and  writer, 
scholar  and  wit,  adorned  the  society.  There,  too,  was  his  one 
picture,  worth  many  a  grand  collection — a  picture  which,  when 
once  seen,  can  never  be  forgotten — the  St.  Catherine  of  Domin- 
ichino,  from  which  Sir  Joshua  borrowed  the  attitude  of  his  Tragic 
Muse.  The  more  the  light  was  reduced,  the  more  that  figure 
started  from  the  canvas.  Two  remarkable  women  also  were 
there  :  Mrs.  Schimmelpenninck,  authoress  of  "  A  Tour  to  Alet ;" 
a  charming,  venerable  lady,  with  her  Moravian  dress  and  lan- 
guage, and  her  habit  of  feeding  and  comforting  every  thing  she 
came  near  ;  she  would  walk  out  alone,  and  return  with  a  train 
of  dogs  and  children,  expecting  and  receiving  doles  of  cake  and 
gingerbread    from   her   inexhaustible  pockets  ;    and  Mrs.  Harriet 


A    LITERARY    LIFE,  391 

Lee,  who  was  unfortunately  absent  during  my  visit.  I  am  not 
much  addicted  to  hon-huntin<r,  but  it  was  a  real  loss  not  to  see 
the  authoress  of  "  Kruitzrier,"  one  of  the  very  few  original  stories 
which  our  predecessors  have  not  stolen  from  us. 

The  most  interesting  resident  of  the  neighborhood  I  did  how- 
ever see.  My  kind  friend,  the  Sketcher,  drove  me,  by  invitation, 
to  drink  tea  at  Firfield,  a  house  used  during  the  war  as  a  French 
prison,  and  then  inhabited  by  Mr.  Cottle  and  his  sister. 

Mr.  Cottle  had  been  during  seven  years  a  bookseller  at  Bristol, 
and  had  during  that  time  had  the  singular  fortune,  let  me  add 
the  liberality  and  good  taste,  to  publish  the  first  works  of  Southey, 
of  Coleridge,  and  of  Wordsworth.  Himself  the  author  of  many 
works  of  excellent  feeling  and  tendency,  and  of  one  ("  The  Recol- 
lections of  Coleridge")  of  the  very  highest  merit,  I  found  him  as  I 
had  expected,  a  mild  and  venerable  man,  distinguished  for  cour- 
tesy and  intelligence.  He  received  us  in  a  room  stored  with 
books  and  piled  with  portfolios,  into  each  of  which  he  had  most 
carefully  inserted  the  letters  of  such  correspondents  as  few  per- 
sons could  boast.  Letters  of  Sir  Humphrey  Davy,  of  Robert  Hall, 
of  John  Foster,  of  Hannah  More,  of  Charles  Lloyd,  of  Charles 
Lamb,  of  Mr.  Landor,  of  Coleridge,  of  Southey,  of  Wordsworth, 
and  of  a  certain  John  Henderson,  who  might,  Mr.  Cottle  said, 
have  excelled  them  all,  but  who  died  at  nine-and-twenty,  and 
left  nothing  behind  him  except  an  immense  reputation  for  gen- 
eral power,  and  especially  for  the  power  of  conversation.  "  He 
evaporated  in  talk."  His  father  had  been  a  neighboring  school- 
master, and  had  retained  his  gifted  son  as  his  assistant,  until 
driven  by  general  remonstrance  into  sending  him  to  Oxford 
When  he  arrived  there,  the  astonishment  that  such  a  scholar 
should  come  to  be  taught  seems  to  have  been  universal.  He 
stayed  on,  however,  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  years  died.  I  re- 
member to  have  heard  the  same  account  of  him  from  my  good 
old  friend,  Dr.  Valpy,  whom  he  occasionally  visited  at  Reading, 
and  who  spoke  of  him  as  a  very  disturbing  visitor  to  a  man  of 
regular  habits.  He  would  sit  smoking  and  talking  till  three  or 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  neither  of  them  remembering  the 
hour,  John  Henderson  carrying  the  good  doctor  away  by  the 
flow  of  his  eloquence.  It  may  be  doubted  whether,  if  he  had 
lived,  he  would  have  left  any  thing  behind  him  except  a  great 
recollection. 


392  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Besides  these  portfolios  (many  of"  them  very  bulky,  and  some 
j'rom  men  wliose  names  have  probably  escaped  me),  the  walls 
were  hunji  with  portraits  ot"  these  illustrious  friends,  some  euprav- 
iujrs,  some  drawings,  some  oil-paintings,  and  many  of  them  re- 
])eated  two  or  three  times,  at  different  ages.  Mr.  Cottle  was  en- 
gaged in  transcribing  Southey's  letters,  for  a  life  even  then  pro- 
jected, and  since  executed  by  his  son.  He  said,  that  of  his 
various  epistolary  collections  he  thought  Southey's  the  most 
amusing,  preferring  them  even  to  those  he  had  received  from 
Charles  Lamb.  Very  few  of  these  letters  are  inserted  in  Mr. 
Cuthbert  Southey's  work  (doubtless  he  was  embarrassed  by  his 
over-riches)  ;  but  I  can  not  help  thinking  tliat  a  selection  of  fa- 
miliar epistles  from  all  the  porltblios  would  be  a  very  welcome 
gift  to  the  literary  world.  People  can  hardly  know  too  much  of 
these  great  poets,  and  of  such  prose  writers  as  Charles  Lamb, 
John  Foster,  and  Robert  Hall. 

Both  Coleridge  and  Southey  were  married  at  Bristol ;  Cole- 
ridge certainly,  and  Southey  I  think,  at  the  beautiful  church  of 
St.  Mary  R-dclifTe.  Upon  my  mentioning  this  to  the  parish 
clerk,  very  learned  upon  the  subject  of  Chatterton,  he  was  sur- 
prised into  confessing  his  ignorance  of  the  fact,  and  got  as  near  as 
a  parish  clerk  ever  does  to  an  admission  that  he  had  never  heard 
the  first  of  those  illustrious  names.  So  strange  a  thing  is  local 
reputation. 

Plenty  of  people,  however,  wei'e  eager  to  shew  me  the  locali- 
ties rendered  famous  by  Southey,  and  1  looked  with  delight  on 
his  father's  house,  his  early  home.  How  great  and  how  good  a 
man  he  was  I  how  fine  a  specimen  of  the  generosity  of  labor ! 
(xiving  so  largely,  so  liberally,  so  unostentatiously,  not  from  the 
superfluities  of  an  abundant  fortune,  but  from  the  hard-won  earn- 
ings of  his  indefatigable  toil  I  Some  people  complain  of  his 
change  of  politics ;  and  I,  for  my  own  particular  part,  wish  very 
heartily  that  he  had  been  content  with  a  very  moderate  modifica- 
tion of  opinion.  But  does  not  the  violent  republicanism  of  youth 
often  end  in  the  violent  toryism  of  age  ?  Does  not  the  pendulum, 
very  forcibly  set  in  motion,  swing  as  far  one  way  as  it  has  swung 
the  other  ?  Does  not  the  sun  rise  in  the  east  and  set  in  the 
west  ? 

As  to  his  poetry,  I  suspect  people  of  liking  it  better  than  they 
say.     He  was  not  Milton  or  Shakspeare,  to  be  sure  ;  but  are  we 


A     LITERARY     LIFE.  398 

to  read  nobody  but  Shakspeare  or  Milton  ?    I  will  venture  to  add 
the  "  Lines  on  a  Holly-tree  :" 

0  reader !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  holly-tree  1 
The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well,  perceives 

Its  glossy  leaves 
Ordered  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 
As  might  confound  the  atheist's  sophistries. 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 

"Wrinkled  and  keen ; 
No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 

Can  reach  to  wound ; 
But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear, 
Smooth  and  unarmed  the  pointless  leaves  appear. 

1  love  to  view  these  things  with  anxious  eyes 

And  moralize : 
And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  holly-tree 

Can  emblems  see 
Wherewith  perchance  to  make  a  pleasant  rhyme, 
One  that  will  profit  in  the  after-time. 

Thus  though  abroad  perchance  I  might  appear 

Harsh  and  austere, 
To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude 

Reserved  and  rude, 
Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I'd  be, 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holl^'-tree. 

And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt  I  know, 

Some  harshness  show. 
All  vain  asperities  I  day  by  day 

Would  wear  away, 
Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 

And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 

So  bright  and  green; 
The  holly  leaves  their  fadeless  hue  display 

Less  bright  than  they. 
But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see, 
What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  holly-tree  1 

So  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 

The  thoughtl(!Rs  throng. 
So  would  I  seem  among  tlie  young  and  gay 

More  grave  than  they, 
That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  holly- free. 


394  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

But  he  has  not  done  himself  justice  in  this  comparison.  Never 
Mas  a  man  more  beloved  by  all  who  approached  him.  Even  his 
peculiarities,  if  he  had  any,  were  genial  and  pleasant.  One  an- 
ecdote I  happen  to  know  personally.  He  was  invited  to  a  largo 
evening  party,  at  Tavistock  House,  the  residence  of  Mr.  Perry, 
proprietor  of  the  "  Morning  Chronicle,"  a  delightful  person,  where 
men  of  all  parties  met,  forgetting  their  political  dilferences  in  so- 
cial pleasure.  The  guest  was  so  punctual,  that  only  two  young 
inmates  were  in  the  room  to  receive  him. 

"  What  are  we  to  have  to-night?"  inquired  he  of  Miss  Lunan, 
Mr.  Perry's  niece,  and  Professor  Person's  stepdaughter. 

"Music,  I  suppose,"  was  the  reply;  "at  least  I  know  that 
Catalani  is  coming  I" 

"  Ah  I"  rejoined  the  poet,  "  then  I  shall  come  another  time. 
You  will  not  miss  me.  Make  my  excuses  I"  and  off  he  ran, 
laughing  at  his  own  dislike  to  opera  singers  and  bravura  songs. 

Every  body  has  heard  the  often  told  story  of  Coleritlge's  en- 
listing in  a  cavalry  regiment  under  a  feigned  name,  and  being 
detected  as  a  Cambridge  scholar  in  consequence  of  his  writing 
some  Greek  lines,  or  rather,  I  believe,  some  Greek  words,  over 
the  bed  of  a  sick  comrade,  whom,  not  knowing  how  else  to  dis- 
pose of  him,  he  had  been  appointed  to  nurse.  It  has  not  been 
stated  that  the  arrangement  for  his  discharge  took  place  at  my 
father's  house  at  Reading.  Such,  however,  was  the  case.  The 
story  was  this.  Dr.  Ogle,  Dean  of  Winchester,  was  related  to 
the  Mitfords,  as  relationships  go  in  Northumberland,  and  having 
been  an  intimate  friend  of  my  maternal  grandfather,  had  no  small 
share  in  bringing  about  the  marriage  between  his  young  cousin 
and  the  orphan  heiress.  He  continued  to  take  an  affectionate  in- 
terest in  the  couple  he  had  brought  together,  and  the  15th  Light 
Dragoons,  in  which  his  eldest  son  had  a  troop,  being  quartered 
in  Reading,  he  came  to  spend  some  days  at  their  house.  Of 
course  Captain  Ogle,  between  whom  and  my  father  the  closest 
friendship  subsisted,  was  invited  to  meet  the  Dean,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  dinner  told  the  story  of  the  learned  recruit.  It  was 
the  beginning  of  the  great  war  with  France  ;  men  were  procured 
with  difficulty,  and  if  one  of  the  servants  waiting  at  table  had 
not  been  induced  to  enlist  in  his  place,  there  might  have  been 
some  hesitation  in  procuring  a  discharge.  Mr.  Coleridge  never 
forgot  my  father's  zeal  in  the  cause,  for  kind  and  clever  as  he 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  395 

was,  Captain  Ogle  was  so  indolent  a  man,  that  without  a  flapper, 
the  matter  might  have  slept  in  his  hands  till  the  Greek  kalends. 
Such  was  Mr.  Coleridge's  kind  recognition  of  my  father's  exer- 
tions, that  he  had  the  infinite  goodness  and  condescension  to  look 
over  the  proof-sheets  of  two  girlish  efibrts,  "  Christina"  and 
"  Blanch,"  and  to  encourage  the  young  writer  by  gentle  strictures 
and  stimulating  praise.  Ah  !  I  wish  she  had  better  deserved  this 
honoring  notice  ! 

I  add  one  of  his  sublimest  poems. 

HYMN  BEFORE  SUNRISE  IN  THE  VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  Morning  Star 

In  his  steep  course  1     So  long  he  seems  to  pause 

On  thy  bald  awful  head,  0  sovran  Blanc ! 

The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 

Rave  ceaselessly;   but  thou,  most  awful  form  ! 

Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines 

How  silently !    Around  thee  and  above 

Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 

An  ebon  mass :   methinks  thou  piercest  it 

As  with  a  wedge !     But  when  I  look  again 

It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 

Thy  habitation  from  eternity ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount!    I  gazed  upon  thee 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :   entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshiped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody. 

So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 

Thou  the  meanwhile  wast  blending  with  my  thouglit, 

Yea  with  my  life,  and  life's  most  secret  joy ; 

Till  the  dilating  soul,  enwrapped,  transfused. 

Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there 

As  in  her  natural  form  swelled  vast  to  Heaven ! 

Awake,  my  soul !   not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest!   not  alone  these  swelling  tears. 
Mute  tears  and  thrilling  ecstasy.     Awake  ! 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliils,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief  sole  sovran  of  the  vale  ! 
Or  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night. 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars. 
Or  when  they  climb  the  .sky  or  when  they  sink 


oUd  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Companion  of  the  Morning  Star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  eartli's  rosy  st;ir,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  !    wake,  0  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  tliy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  eartli  ! 
Who  tilled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  1 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams'? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents,  fiercely  glad ! 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 

Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever! 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ] 

And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came). 

Here  let  the  billows  stitlen  and  have  rest  1 

Ye  ice-falls!   ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methiidis,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents  !    silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of*  heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon"?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  1     Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  1 — 
God !   let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer !   and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 
God  !   sing,  ye  meadow-streams,  with  gladsome  voice ! 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds  ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow. 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  ! 

Ye  living  flowers,  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 
Ye  wild  goats,  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds  ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element  I 
Utter  forth,  God !   and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  ! 

Once  more,  hoar  mount,  with  thy  skj'-painting  peaks. 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche  unheard 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  vail  thy  breast — 

Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain!   thou. 

In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 

Slow  traveling  with  dim  eyes,  suffused  with  tears, 

Solemnlj'  seemest  like  a  vaporj'  cloud 

To  rise- before  me — Rise,  0  ever  rise; 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  897 

Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  earth ! 
Thou  kinglj'  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  embassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Great  Hierarch !   tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God ! 

One  can  not  look  too  often  upon  Mr.  Wordsworth's  charming 
female  portrait : 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight: 

A  lovely  apparition  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 

Like  twilight,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn  ; 

A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  and  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath  ; 
A  traveler  betwixt  life  and  death  ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will. 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength  and  sUill, 
A  perfect  woman  nobly  i)lanned. 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still  and  bright, 
With  something  of  an  angi.l  light. 

I  would  add  "  Laodarnia,"  if  it  were  not  too  lonj^,  and  the 
"  Yew-trees,"  if  I  had  not  a  misgiving  that  I  have  somewhere 
planted  those  deathle.«s  trunks  before.  In  how  many  ways  is  a 
great  poet  glorious  I     I  met  with  a  few  lines  taken  from   that 


398  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

noble  poom  the  other  day  in  the  "  Modern  Painters,"  cited   for 
tlie  landscape  : 

"  Huge  trunks,  and  each  particular  trunk  a  growth 
Of  intertwisted  fibers  serpentine, 
tJpcoiling  and  inveterately  convolved  ! 

Beneath  whose  shade 
With  sheddings  from  the  pinal  umbrage  tinged 
Perennially — " 

and  so  forth.      Mr.  Ruskin  cited  this  fine  passage  for  the  picture, 
I  for  the  personifications  : 

"  Ghostly  shapes 
May  meet  at  noontide.  Fear  and  trembling  Hope, 
Silence  and  Foresight,  Death  the  skeleton, 
And  Time  the  shadow!" 

Both  quoted   the  lines  for  different  excellences,  and  both  were 
right. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  399 


XXXI. 

AMERICAIN    POETS. 

OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 

Among  the  strange  events  of  these  strange  days  of  ours,  when 
revolutions  and  counter-revolutions,  constitutions  changed  one 
week  and  rechanged  the  next,  seem  to  crowd  into  a  fortnight  the 
work  of  a  century,  annihilating  time,  just  as  railways  and  electric 
telegraphs  annihilate  space, — in  these  days  of  curious  novelty, 
nothing  has  taken  me  more  pleasantly  by  surprise  than  the  school 
of  true  and  original  poetry  that  has  sprung  up  among  our  blood 
relations  (I  had  well  nigh  called  them  our  fellow-countrymen) 
across  the  Atlantic  ;  they  who  speak  the  same  tongue  and  in- 
herit the  same  literature.  And  of  all  this  flight  of  genuine  poets, 
I  hardly  know  any  one  so  original  as  Dr.  Holmes.  For  him  we 
can  find  no  living  prototype  ;  to  track  his  footsteps,  we  must 
travel  back  as  far  as  Pope  or  Dryden  ;  and  to  my  mind  it  would 
be  well  if  some  of  our  own  bards  would  take  the  same  journey 
— provided  always,  it  produced  the  same  result.  Lofty,  poignant, 
graceful,  grand,  high  of  thought,  and  clear  of  word,  we  could 
fancy  ourselves  reading  some  pungent  page  of  "  Absalom  and 
Achitophel,"  or  of  the  "  Moral  Epistles,"  if  it  were  not  for  the 
pervading  nationality,  which,  excepting  Whittier,  American  poets 
have  generally  wanted,  and  for  that  true  reflection  of  the  man- 
ners and  the  follies  of  the  age,  without  which  satire  would  fail 
alike  of  its  purpose  and  its  name. 

The  work  of  which  I  am  about  to  offer  a  sample,  all  too  brief, 
is  a  little  book  much  too  brief  itself ;  a  little  book  of  less  than 
forty  pages,  described  in  the  title-page  as  "  Astra?a — a  Poem,  de- 
livered before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Yale  College,  Au- 
gust, 1850,  by  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  and  printed  at  tlie  rcrpicst 
of  the  Society." 


400  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Thf  introduction  tells  most  gracetuUy,  in  verse  that  rather, 
perhaps,  implies  than  relates,  the  cause  of  the  author's  visit  to 
the  college,  dear  to  him  as  the  place  of  his  father's  education  : 

What  secret  cliarm  long  whispering  in  mine  ear, 
Allures,  attracts,  compels,  and  chains  lue  here, 
>Y1ktc  murmuring  echoes  call  me  to  resign 
Their  secret  haunts  to  sweeter  lips  than  mine ; 
Where  silent  patliways  pierce  the  solemn  shade 
In  wliose  still  depths  my  feet  have  never  strayed  ; 
Here,  in  the  home  where  grateful  children  meet, 
And  I,  half  alien,  take  the  stranger's  seat, 
Doubting,  yet  hoping  that  the  gift  I  bear 
May  keep  its  bloom  in  this  unwonted  airl 
Hush,  idle  fancy,  with  thy  needless  art. 
Speak  from  thy  fountains,  0  my  throbbing  heart! 
&iy  shall  I  trust  these  trembling  lips  to  tell 
The  fireside  tale  that  memory  knows  so  w'ell  ? 
How  in  the  days  of  Freedom's  dread  campaign, 
A  home-bred  school-boy  left  his  village  plain, 
Slow  faring  southward,  till  his  wearied  feet 
Pressed  the  worn  threshold  of  this  fair  retreat; 
How  with  his  comely  face  and  gracious  mien, 
He  joined  the  concourse  of  the  classic  green. 
Nameless,  unfriended,  yet  by  Nature  blest 
With  the  rich  tokens  that  she  loves  the  best ; 
The  flowing  locks,  his  youth's  redundant  crown, 
Smoothed  o'er  a  brow  unfurrowed  by  a  frown; 
The  untaught  smile,  that  speaks  so  passing  plain, 
A  world  all  hope,  a  past  without  a  stain; 
The  clear-hued  cheek,  whose  burning  current  glows 
Crimson  in  action,  carmine  in  repose; 
Gifts  such  as  purchase,  with  unminted  gold. 
Smiles  from  the  young  and  blessings  from  the  old. 

Is  not  the  portrait  of  the  boy  beautiful  ?     The  poem  goes  an  : 

Say  shall  my  hand  with  pious  love  restore. 
The  faint  far  pictures  time  beholds  no  more  1 
How  the  grave  senior,  he  whose  later  fame 
Stamps  on  our  laws  his  own  undying  name, 
Saw  from  on  high  with  half  paternal  joy 
Some  spark  of  promise  in  the  studious  boy, 
And  bade  him  enter,  with  paternal  tone. 
The  stately  precincts  which  he  called  his  own. 
*  *  *  *  * 

How  kindness  ripened,  till  the  youth  might  dare, 
Take  the  low  seat  beside  his  sacred  chair, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  401 

While  the  gray  scholar  bending  o'er  the  young, 

Spelled  the  square  types  of  Abraham's  ancient  tongue, 

Or  with  mild  rapture  stooped  devoutly  o'er 

His  small  coarse  leaf  alive  with  curious  lore ; 

Tales  of  grim  judges,  at  whose  awful  beck, 

Flashed  the  broad  blade  across  a  royal  neck ; 

Or  learned  dreams  of  Israel's  long-lost  child. 

Found  in  the  wanderer  of  the  western  wild. 

Dear  to  his  age  were  memories  such  as  these. 

Leaves  of  his  June  in  life's  autumnal  breeze ; 

Such  were  the  tales  that  won  ray  boyish  ear. 

Told  in  low  tones  that  evening  loves  to  hear. 

Thus  in  the  scene  I  pass  so  lightly  o'er, 

Trod  for  a  moment,  then  beheld  no  more, 

Strange  shapes  and  dim,  unseen  by  other  eyes, 

Through  the  dark  portals  of  the  past  arise ; 

I  see  no  more  the  fair  embracing  throng, 

I  hear  no  echo  to  my  saddened  song. 

No  more  I  heed  the  kind  or  envious  gaze. 

The  voice  of  blame,  the  rustling  thrill  of  praise : 

Alone,  alone,  the  awful  past  I  tread, 

White  with  the  marbles  of  the  slumbering  dead ; 

One  shadowy  form  my  dreaming  eyes  behold. 

That  leads  my  footsteps  as  it  led  of  old. 

One  floating  voice,  amid  the  silence  heard, 

Breathes  in  my  ear  love's  long  unspoken  word ; — 

These  are  the  scenes  thy  youthful  eyes  have  known, 

My  heart's  warm  pulses  claim  them  as  its  own; 

The  sapling  compassed  in  thy  fingers'  clasp. 

My  arms  scarce  circle  in  their  twice-told  grasp, 

Yet  in  each  leaf  of  yon  o'ershadowing  tree, 

I  read  a  legend  that  was  traced  by  thee. 

Year  after  year  the  living  wave  has  beat 

These  smooth-worn  channels  with  its  trampling  feet, 

Yet  in  each  line  that  scores  the  grassy  sod, 

I  see  the  pathway  where  thy  feet  have  trod  ; 

Though  from  the  scene  that  hears  my  faltering  lay, 

The  few  that  loved  thee  long  have  passed  away, 

Thy  sacred  presence  all  the  landscape  fills, 

Its  groves  and  plains,  and  adamantine  hills ! 

Ye  who  have  known  the  sudden  tears  that  flow. 

Sad  tears,  yet  sweet,  the  dews  of  twilight  woe, — 

When  led  by  chance,  your  wand(!ring  eye  has  crossed 

Some  poor  memorial  of  the  loved  and  lost, 

Bear  with  my  weakness  as  I  look  around 

On  the  dear  relics  of  this  holy  ground, 

These  bowery  cloisters,  shadowed  and  serene. 

My  dreams  have  pictured  ere  mine  eyes  have  seen. 


402  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

And,  oh,  forgive  me,  if  the  flower  I  brought. 
Droops  in  my  hand  beside  tliis  burning  tlioiight ; 
Tiie  hopes  and  fears  that  marked  tiiis  destined  hour, 
The  cliill  of  doubt,  the  startled  throb  of  power. 
The  flush  of  pride,  the  trembling  glow  of  shame, 
All  fade  away,  and  leave  my  Father's  name ! 

The  grace  and  pathos  of  this  introduction  must  be  felt  by  every 
one.  It  has  all  the  sweetness  of  Goldsmith,  with  more  force  and 
less  obviousness  of  thought. 

The  poem  opens  with  a  description  of  an  American  sprinp, 
equally  true  to  general  nature  and  to  the  locality  where  it  is 
written.  The  truth  is  so  evident  in  the  one  case,  that  we  take 
it  for  granted  in  the  other.  The  couplet  on  the  crocus  for  in- 
stance, a  couplet  so  far  as  I  know  unmatched  in  flower  painting, 
gives  us  most  exquisitely  expressed  an  image  that  meets  our  eye 
every  March.  The  "  shy  turtles  rangingtheir  platoons,"'we  never 
have  seen,  and  probably  never  shall  see,  and  yet  the  accuracy  of 
the  picture  is  as  clear  to  us  as  that  of  the  most  familiar  flower  of 
our  border. 

Winter  is  past ;  the  heart  of  Nature  warms 
Beneath  the  wrecks  of  unresisted  storms ; 
Doubtful  at  first,  suspected  more  than  seen, 
The  Southern  slopes  are  fringed  with  tender  green  ; 
On  sheltered  banks,  beneath  the  drif)ping  eaves, 
Spring's  earliest  nurslings  spread  their  glowing  leaves, 
Bright  with  the  hues  from  wider  pictures  won, 
t    Whije, azure,  golden, — drift,  or  sky  or  sun: 
The  snowdrop,  bearing  on  her  patient  breast 
The  frozen  trophy  torn  from  winter's  crest ; 
The  violet,  gazing  on  the  arch  of  blue 
Till  her  own  iris  wears  its  deepened  hue ; 
The  spendthrift  crocus,  bursting  through  the  mold 
Naked  and  shivering,  with  his  cup  of  gold. 
Swelled  with  new  life,  the  darkening  elm  on  high 
Prints  her  thick  buds  against  the  spotted  sky ; 
On  all  her  boughs  the  stately  chestnut  cleaves 
The  gummy  shroud  that  wraps  her  embryo  leaves; 
The  housefly  stealing  from  his  narrow  gi-ave. 
Drugged  with  the  opiate  that  November  gave. 
Beats  with  faint  wing  against  the  snowy  pane 
Or  crawls  tenacious  o'er  its  lucid  plain; 
From  shaded  chinks  of  lichen-crusted  walls 
In  languid  curves  the  gliding  serpent  crawls; 
The  bog's  green  harper,  thawing  from  his  sleep 
Twangs  a  hoarse  note  and  tries  a  "shortened  leap; 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  403 

On  floating  rails  that  face  the  softening  noons 
The  still  shy  turtles  range  their  dark  platoons, 
Or  toiling,  aimless,  o'er  the  mellowing  fields, 
Trail  through  the  grass  their  tesselated  shields. 

At  last  young  April,  ever  frail  and  fair. 

Wooed  by  her  playmate  with  the  golden  hair. 

Chased  to  the  margin  of  receding  floods, 

O'er  the  soft  meadows  starred  with  opening  buds 

In  tears  and  blushes  sighs  herself  away 

And  hides  her  cheek  beneath  the  flowers  of  May. 

Then  the  proud  tulip  lights  her  beacon  blaze, 

Iler  clustering  curls  the  hyacinth  displays. 

O'er  her  tall  blades  the  crested  fleur-de-lis 

Like  blue-eyed  Pallas  towers  erect  and  free, 

With  yellower  flames  the  lengthened  sunshine  glows 

And  love  lays  bare  the  passion-breathing  rose; 

Queen  of  the  lake,  along  its  reedy  verge 

The  rival  lily  hastens  to  emerge, 

Her  snowy  shoulders  glistening  as  she  strips. 

Till  morn  is  sultan  of  her  parted  lips. 

Then  bursts  the  song  from  every  leafy  glade 

The  yielding  season's  bridal  serenade; 

Then  flash  the  wings  returning  summer  calls 

Through  the  deep  arches  of  her  forest  halls ; 

The  blue-bird  breathing  from  his  azure  plumesj 

The  fragrance  borrowed  where  the  myrtle  blooms; 

The  thrush,  poor  wanderer,  dropping  meekly  down. 

Clad  in  his  remnant  of  autuumal  brown; 

The  oriole,  drifting  like  a  flake  of  fire, 

Rent  by  the  whirlwind  from  a  blazing  spire. 

The  robin  jerking  his  spasmodic  throat 

Repeats,  staccato,  his  peremptory  note ; 

The  crack-brained  bobolink  courts  his  crazy  mate 

Poised  on  a  bulrush  tipsy  with  his  weight. 

Nay,  in  his  cage  the  lone  canary  sings. 

Feels  the  soft  air  and  spreads  his  idle  wings: — 

Why  dream  I  here  within  these  caging  walls, 

Deaf  to  her  voice  wliile  blooming  Nature  calls. 

While  from  Heaven's  face  the  long-drawn  shadows  roll, 

And  all  its  sunshine  floods  my  opening  soul ! 

After  this  we  are  introduced  to  a  winter  room,  delineated  with 
equal  taste  and  fidelity  ; — the  very  honne  of  lettered  comfort : 

Yet  in  the  darksome  crypt  I  lefl  so  late, 
Whose  only  altar  is  its  rusted  grate, 


•i04  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

St'puk'linil,  nvyless,  joyless  as  it  seems, 
Shamed  by  the  glare  of  May's  refulgent  beams, 
While  the  dim  seasons  dragged  their  siirouded  train 
Its  pak-r  splendors  were  not  (juite  in  vain. 
From  these  dull  bars  the  cheerful  lirelight's  glow 
Streamed  through  the  casement  o'er  the  spectral  snow 
Here,  while  the  night-wind  wreaked  its  frantic  will 
On  the  loose  ocean  and  the  rock-bound  hill, 
Rent  the  cracked  topsail  from  its  shivering  yard, 
And  rived  the  oak  a  thousand  storms  had  scarred, 
Fenced  by  these  walls  the  peaceful  taper  shone 
Nor  felt  a  breath  to  swerve  its  trembling  cone. 

Nor  all  unblest  the  mild  interior  scene 

When  the  red  curtain  spread  its  folded  screen ; 

O'er  some  light  task  the  lonely  hours  were  past. 

And  the  long  evening  only  flew  too  fast ; 

Or  the  wide  chair  its  leathern  arms  would  lend 

In  genial  w-elcome  to  some  easy  friend 

Stretched  on  its  bosom  with  relaxing  nerves, 

Slow  molding,  plastic  to  its  hollow  curves ; 

Perchance  indulging,  if  of  generous  creed, 

In  brave  Sir  Walter's  dream-compelling  weed. 

Or  happier  still  the  evening  hour  would  bring 

To  the  round  table  its  expected  ring, 

And  while  the  punch-bowl's  sounding  depths  were  stirred 

Its  silver  cherubs  smiling  as  they  heard, 

O'er  caution's  head  the  blinding  hood  was  flung, 

And  friendship  loosed  the  jesses  of  the  tongue. 

Then  follows  an  enumeration  not  merely  of  books  but  of  print- 
ers, which,  I  confess,  took  me  a  little  by  surprise.  I  knew  that 
wide  readers  were  widely  spread  in  the  United  States ;  and  that 
there  was  no  lack  either  of  ripe  scholars  or  of  extensive  libraries. 
I  should  fully  have  expected  to  find  such  a  man  as  Dr.  Holmes 
among  the  buyers  of  the  best  works,  ancient  and  modern,  but 
hardly  among  the  collectors  of  choice  editions.  That,  T  confess, 
did  give  me  a  very  pleasant  a.'^tonishment.  Woman  although  I 
be,  I  have  lived  enough  with  such  people  to  hold  them  in  no 
small  reverence.  Ay,  and  I  know  the  Baskerville  Virgil  well 
enough  by  sight  to  recognize  the  wonderful  accuracy  of  the  por- 
trait. Is  there  any  thing  under  the  sun  that  Dr.  Holmes  can  not 
paint  I 

Such  the  warm  life  this  dim  retreat  has  known, 
Not  quite  deserted  when  its  guests  were  flown ; 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  405 

Nay,  filled  with  friends,  an  unobtrusive  set, 
Guiltless  of  calls  and  cards  and  etiquette, 
Ready  to  answer,  never  known  to  ask, 
Claiming  no  service,  prompt  for  every  task. 

On  those  dark  shelves  no  housewife  lore  profanes, 

O'er  his  mute  files  the  monarch  folio  reigns, 

A  mingled  race,  the  wreck  of  chance  and  time. 

That  talk  all  tongues  and  breathe  of  every  clime ; 

Each  knows  his  place,  and  each  may  claim  his  part 

In  some  quaint  corner  of  his  master's  heart. 

This  old  Decretal,  won  from  Kloss's  hoards, 

Thick-leafed,  brass-cornered,  ribbed  with  oaken  boaids, 

Stands  the  gray  patriarch  of  the  graver  rows, 

Its  fourth  ripe  century  narrowing  to  its  close; 

Not  daily  conned,  but  glorious  still  to  view, 

With  glistening  letters  wrought  in  red  and  blue. 

There  towers  Stagira's  all-embracing  sage. 

The  Aldine  anchor  on  his  opening  page  ; 

There  sleep  the  births  of  Plato's  heavenly  mind 

In  yon  dark  tome  by  jealous  clasps  confined, 

"Olim  e  libris" — (dare  I  call  it  mine) 

Of  Yale's  great  Head  and  Killingworth's  divine  ! 

In  those  square  sheets  the  songs  of  Maro  fill 

The  silvery  types  of  smooth-leaved  Baskerville ; 

High  over  all,  in  close  compact  array, 

Their  classic  wealth  the  Elzevirs  display. 

In  lower  regions  of  the  sacred  space 

Range  the  dense  volumes  of  a  humbler  race ; 

There  grim  chirurgeons  all  their  mysteries  teach 

In  spectral  pictures  or  in  crabbed  speech; 

Harvey  and  Ilaller,  fresh  from  Nature's  page. 

Shoulder  the  dreamers  of  an  earlier  age, 

LuUy  and  Geber  and  the  learned  crew 

That  loved  to  talk  of  all  they  could  not  do. 

Why  coimt  the  rest,  those  names  of  later  days 

That  many  love  and  all  agree  to  praise  ? 

Or  point  the  titles  whore  a  glance  may  read 

The  dangerous  lines  of  party  or  of  creoH  ! 

Too  well  perchance  the  chosen  list  would  show 

What  few  may  care  and  none  can  claim  to  know. 

Each  lias  his  features,  who.se  exterior  seal 

A  brush  may  copy  or  a  sunbeam  steal ; 

Cfo  to  his  study— on  the  nearest  .shelf 

Stands  the  mosaic  portrait  of  himself. 

What  though  for  months  the  tranquil  dust  (IcKCcncN, 

Whitening  the  heads  of  these  mine  ancient  friend.s. 

While  the  damp  offspring  of  the  modern  press 

Flaunts  on  my  table  with  its  pictured  dress ; 


406  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Not  loss  I  love  oaoh  dull  familiar  face. 
Nor  loss  should  miss  it  from  the  appointed  place, 
I  snatch  the  book  along  whose  burning  leaves 
His  scarlet  web  our  wild  romancer  weaves, 
Yet,  while  proud  Hester's  fiery  pangs  I  share, 
My  old  Magnalia  must  be  standing  there." 

Such  is  the  opening  of  the  "  Astraja."  It  speaks  much  for  the 
man  whose  affluence  of  intellect  could  afford  such  an  outpouring 
■for  a  single  occasion,  the  recitation  of  one  solitary  evening  ;  and 
hardly  less  for  the  audience  that  prompted  and  welcomed  sucli 
an  effort. 

The  little  book  was  sent  to  me  among  many  others  by  a  most 
kind  and  talented  young  friend,  to  whose  unfailing  attention  I 
owe  pleasure  upon  pleasure  of  this  high  nature.  In  my  answer 
I  expressed  the  admiration  which  I  so  truly  felt,  and  the  next 
packet  brought  a  fresh  claim  upon  my  gratitude  ;  a  volume  of 
"  Dr.  Holmes's  Collected  Poems,"  of  I  know  not  what  edition  ; 
for  as  man  and  as  author  he  commands  an  immense  popularity 
in  Boston,  the  capital  of  literature  in  North  America.  This  vol- 
ume is  enriched  with  an  autograph  and  a  portrait,  both  eminently 
characteristic — the  handwriting  being  clear,  free,  vigorous,  deli- 
cate, such  a  hand  as  could  be  written  by  none  but  an  accom- 
plished gentleman  ;  and  the  engraving  just  like  the  picture  which 
I  had  painted  of  him  in  my  own  mind.  There  is  a  print  of  Ho- 
garth's, "  The  Election  Ball,"  full  of  people  with  their  hats  flung 
into  a  corner,  and  it  is  said  of  that  print  that  every  hat  could  be 
adjusted  to  the  figure  to  which  it  belonged.  Now  I  feel  quite 
certain  that  if  there  were  a  collection  of  living  authors  of  all 
countries,  Dr.  Holmes's  head  would  be  assigned  to  its  right 
owner  ;  the  features  and  expression,  not  according  to  this  .'system 
or  that,  but  according  to  that  stamp  of  character  and  intellect 
which  we  all  tacitly  recognize,  belong  so  entirely  to  him  individ- 
ually, as  we  see  him  in  his  works. 

Besides  this  engraving,  the  volume  contains,  together  with  a 
good  deal  of  very  pleasant  occasional  poetry,  much  truth  and 
much  beauty.  I  transcribe  some  passages  full  of  charity,  a  qual- 
ity which,  especially  in  a  religious  sense,  is  perhaps  rarer  than 
either.     The  power  will  speak  for  itself : 

"  What  is  thy  creed  1"  a  hundred  lips  inquire ; 

"  Thou  seekest  God  beneath  what  Christian  spire  ?" 


A    LITEKARY    LIFE.  407 

Nor  ask  they  idly,  for  uncounted  lies 
Float  upward  on  the  smoke  of  sacrifice ; 
When  man's  first  incense  rose  above  the  plain, 
Of  earth's  two  altars,  one  was  built  by  Cain  ! 

Uncursed  by  doubt  our  earliest  creed  we  take ; 
We  love  the  precepts  for  the  teacher's  sake  ; 
The  simple  lessons  which  the  nursery  taught 
Fell  soft  and  stainless  on  the  buds  of  thought, 
And  the  full  blossom  owes  its  fairest  hue 
To  those  sweet  tear-drops  of  affection's  di*e.     e^t' 

Too  oft  the  light  that  led  our  earlier  hours 
Fades  with  the  perfume  of  our  cradle  flowers ; 
The  clear  cold  question  chills  to  frozen  doubt. 
Tired  of  beliefs  we  dread  to  live  without. 
Oh  !  then  if  Reason  waver  at  thy  side, 
Let  humbler  memory  be  thy  gentle  guide ; 
Go  to  thy  birthplace,  and  if  faith  was  there, 
Repeat  thy  father's  creed,  thy  mother's  prayer. 

Faith  loves  to  lean  on  Time's  destroying  arm, 
And  age,  like  distance,  lends  a  double  charm. 
In  dim  cathedrals,  dark  with  vaulted  gloom. 
What  holy  awe  invests  the  saintly  tomb ! 
There  Pride  will  bow,  and  anxious  Care  expand. 
And  creeping  Avarice  come  with  open  hand ; 
The  gay  can  weep,  the  impious  can  adore 
From  morn's  first  glimmerings  on  the  chancel  floor 
Till  dying  sunset  sheds  his  crimson  stains 
Through  the  faint  halos  of  the  irised  panes. 

Yet  there  are  graves  whose  rudely-shapen  sod 
Bears  the  fresh  footprints  where  the  sexton  trod  ; 
Graves  where  the  verdure  has  not  dared  to  shoot, 
Where  the  chance  wild-flower  has  not  fixed  its  root, 
Wliose  slumbering  tenants,  dead  without  a  name. 
The  eternal  record  shall  at  length  proclaim 
Pure  as  the  holiest  in  the  long  array 
Of  hooded,  mitred  or  tiaraed  clay  ! 


Deal  meekly,  gently  witli  the  hopes  that  guide 
The  lowliest  brother  straying  from  thy  side  ; 
If  right,  they  bid  thee  tremble  for  thine  own, 
If  wrong,  the  verdict  is  for  God  alone. 

What  though  the  champions  of  thy  faith  esteem 
The  sprinkled  fountain  or  baptismal  stream ; 


408  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Shall  jealous  passions  in  unsoenilj'  strife 

Cross  their  dark  weapons  o'er  the  waves  of  lifu  1 

Let  my  ft-ee  soul  expanding  as  it  can 
Leave  to  his  scheme  the  thoughtful  Puritan ; 
But  Calvin's  dogma  shall  my  li[)s  de»ide  ]      ^ 
In  that  stern  faith  my  angel  Mary  died; 
Or  ask  if  Mercy's  milder  creed  can  save, 
Sweet  sister  risen  from  thy  uew-made  grave  7 

True,  the  harsh  founders  of  thy  church  reviled 
That  ancient  faith,  the  trust  of  Erin's  child ; — 
Must  thou  be  raking  in  the  crumbled  past 
For  racks  and  fiigots  in  her  teeth  to  cast  1 
See  from  the  ashes  of  Helvetia's  pile 
The  whitened  skull  of  old  Servetus  smile  ! 


Grieve  as  thou  must  o'er  History's  reeking  page ; 
Blush  for  the  wrongs  that  stain  thy  happier  age ; 
Strive  with  the  wanderer  from  the  better  path, 
Bearing  thy  message  meekly,  not  in  wrath ; 
Weep  for  the  frail  that  err,  the  weak  that  fall, 
Have  thine  own  faith, — but  hope  and  pray  for  all ! 

I  conclude  with  the  following  genial  stanzas,  worth  all  the 
temperance  songs  in  the  world,  as  inculcating  temperance.  They 
really  form  a  compendium  of  the  History  of  New  England  : 

ON   LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL. 

This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,  it  tells  of  good  old  times. 
Of  joyous  days,  and  jolly  nights,  and  merry  Christmas  chimes  ; 
They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but  honest,  brave  and  true, 
That  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch,  when  this  old  bowl  was  new. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar, — so  runs  the  ancient  tale, — 
'Twas  liammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith,  whose  arm  was  like  a  flail ; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for  fear  his  strength  should  fail, 
He  wiped  his  brow,  and  quaffed  a  cup  of  good  old  Flemish  ale. 

'Twas  purchased  by  an  English  squire,  to  please  his  loving  dame, 
Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a  longing  for  the  same ; 
And  ofl  as  on  the  ancient  stock,  another  twig  was  found, 
'Twas  filled  with  caudle,  spiced  and  hot,  and  handed  smoking  round. 

But  changing  hands,  it  reached  at  length  a  Puritan  divine, 
Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a  little  wine, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  409 

But  hated  puncli  and  prelacj' ;  and  so  it  was,  perhaps, 

He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  conventicles  and  schnaps. 

And  then,  of  course,  j-ou  know  what's  next,— it  left  the  Dutchman's  shore, 
With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came, — a  hundred  souls  and  more, — 
Along  with  all  the  furniture  to  fill  their  new  abodes, — 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,— at  least  a  hundred  loads. 

'Twas  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night  was  closing  dim. 
When  old  Miles  Standish  took  the  towl,  and  filled  it  to  the  brim ; 
The  little  captain  stood  and  stirred  the  posset  with  his  sword, 
And  all  his  sturdy  men-at-arms  were  ranged  about  the  board. 

Fe  poured  the  fiery  Hollands  in, — the  man  that  never  feared, — 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and  wiped  his  yellow  beard, 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers — the  men  that  fought  and  prayed, — 
All  drank  as  'twere  their  mother's  milk,  and  not  a  man  afraid. 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the  screaming  eagle  flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  ringing  whoop,  the  soldier's  wild  halloo ; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  he  taught  to  kith  and  kin, 
"  Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find  he  smells  of  Hollands  gin." 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had  spread  their  leaves  and  snows, 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each  little  cherub's  nose, 
Wlien  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but  not  in  mirth  or  joy, 
'Twas  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to  cheer  her  parting  boy. 

"  Drink,  John,"  she  said,  "  'twill  do  you  good, — poor  child,  you'll  never 

bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench  out  in  the  midnight  air ; 
And  if — God  bless  me  ! — you  were  hurt,  'twould  keep  away  the  chill." 
So  John  did  drink, — and  well  he  wrought  that  night  at  Bunker's  Hill ! 

I  tell  you  there  was  generous  warmth  in  good  old  English  cheer ; 
I  tell  you  'twas  a  pleasant  thought  to  bring  its  symbol  here  ; 
'Tis  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess.     Hast  tlion  a  drunken  soul  7 
The  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my  silver  bowl ! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the  past, — its  pressed  yet  fragrant  flowers, — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls, — the  ivy  on  its  tow(;rs, — 
Nay.  this  poor  bauble  it  bec)ueatli(,'d, — my  eyes  grow  moist  and  dim 
To  think  of  all  the  vanished  joys  that  danced  around  its  brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it  straight  to  me  ; 
The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  wliate'er  the  li(iuid  be; 
And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect  me  from  the  sin 
That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words-"  My  dear,  where  have  you 
been  ?" 

S 


410  KEOOLLECTIONS    OF 

Dr.  Holmes  is  still  a  younp  man,  and  one  of  the  most  eminent 
physicians  in  Boston.  He  excels  in  singing  his  own  charming 
songs,  and  speaks  as  well  as  he  writes ;  and,  alter  reading  even 
the  small  specimens  of  his  poetry  that  my  space  has  enabled  me 
to  give,  my  fair  readers  will  not  wonder  to  hear  that  he  is  one  of 
the  most  popular  persons  in  his  native  city. 

He  is  a  small,  compact  little  man  (says  our  mutual  friend),  the 
delight  and  ornament  of  every  society  that  he  enters,  buzzing 
about  like  a  bee,  or  fluttering  like  a  humming-bird,  exceedingly 
difficult  to  catch,  unless  he  be  really  wanted  for  some  kind  act, 
and  then  you  are  sure  of  him. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  411 


XXXIL 

LETTERS    OF    AUTHORS. 

SAMUEL    RICHARDSON 

Besides  the  rich  collection  of  State  Papers  and  Historical  Dis- 
patches which  have  been  discovered  in  the  difierent  public  offices, 
and  the  still  more  curious  bundles  of  family  epistles  (such  as  the 
Paxton  correspondence)  which  are  every  now  and  then  disinterred 
from  the  forgotten  repositories  of  old  mansions,  there  is  no  branch 
of  literature  in  which  England  is  more  eminent  than  the  letters 
of  celebrated  men. 

From  the  moment  in  which  Mason,  by  a  happy  inspiration, 
made  Gray  tell  his  own  story,  and  by  dint  of  his  charming  letters 
contrived  to  produce,  from  the  uneventful  life  of  a  retired  scholar, 
one  of  the  most  attractive  books  ever  printed,  almost  every 
biographer  of  note  has  followed  his  example.  The  lives  of 
Covvper,  of  Byron,  of  Scott,  of  Southey,  of  Charles  Lamb,  of  Dr. 
Arnold,  works  full  of  interest  and  of  vitality,  owe  their  principal 
charm  to  this  source.  Nay,  such  is  the  reality  and  identity  be- 
longing to  letters  written  at  the  moment,  and  intended  only  for 
the  eye  of  a  favorite  friend,  that  it  is  probable  that  any  genuine 
series  of  epistles,  were  the  writer  ever  so  little  distinguished, 
would,  provided  they  were  truthful  and  spontaneous,  possess  the 
invaluable  quality  of  individuality  which  so  often  causes  us  to 
linger  before  an  old  portrait  of  which  we  know  no  more  than 
that  it  is  a  Burgomaster  by  Rembrandt,  or  a  Venetian  Senator 
by  Titian.  The  least  skillful  pen,  when  flowing  from  the  fullness 
of  the  heart,  and  untroubled  by  any  misgivings  of  after  publica- 
tion, shall  often  paint  with  as  faithful  and  life-like  a  tuiu-h  as 
either  of  those  great  masters. 

Of  letter-writers  by  profession  we  have  indeed  few,  although 
Horace  Walpole,  bright,  fresh,  quaint,  and  glittering  as  one   of 


412  KKCOL  LECTIONS    OF 

his  own  most  precious  figures  of  Dresik'ii  china,  is  a  host  in  him- 
self. But  every  liere  and  there,  scattered  in  various  and  unhkely 
volumes,  we  meet  with  detached  letters  of  eminent  persons  whicli 
lead  us  to  wish  for  more.  I  remember  two  or  three  of  David 
Hume's  which  form  a  case  in  point :  one  to  Adam  Smith,  who 
had  asked  of  him  the  success  of  his  "  Theory  of  Moral  Senti- 
ments," in  Avhich  he  dallies  with  a  charming  playfulness  with  an 
author's  anxiety,  withholding,  delaying,  interrupting  himself 
twenty  times,  and  at  last  pouring  out  without  stint  or  measure 
the  favorable  reception  of  the  work  ;  and  another  to  Dr.  Robert- 
son, who  appears  to  have  requested  his  opinion  of  his  style,  ban- 
tering him  on  certain  Scottish  provincialisms  and  small  pedan- 
tries— "a  historian,  indeed  I  Have  you  an  ear?" — mixed  with 
praise  so  graceful  and  kindness  so  genuine,  that  the  most  suscept- 
ible of  vanities  could  not  have  taken  offense. 

Every  now  and  then,  too,  we  fall  upon  a  long  correspondence 
which  the  writer's  name  has  caused  to  be  published,  but  which, 
from  a  thousand  causes,  is  certain  to  fall  into  oblivion,  although 
containing  much  that  is  curious.  Such  is  "  The  Life  and  Letters 
of  Samuel  Richardson." 

I  suspect  that  the  works  from  whence  that  great  name  is  de- 
rived are  in  this  generation  little  more  than  a  tradition  ;  and  that 
the  "Clarissa"  and  the  "Sir  Charles  Grandison,"  which,  to- 
gether with  the  "  Spectators,"  formed  the  staple  of  our  great- 
grandmothers'  libraries,  find  almost  as  few  readers  among  their 
descendants  as  the  "  Grand  Cyrus"  or  "  The  Princess  of  Cleves." 

As  far  as  "  Clarissa"  is  concerned,  great  tragedy  as  the  book 
unquestionably  is,  I  do  not  wonder  at  this.  Considering  the  story 
and  plan  of  the  work,  the  marvel  is  rather  that  mothers  should 
have  placed  it  in  their  daughters'  hands  as  a  sort  of  manual  of 
virtue,  and  that  at  Ranelagh,  ladies  of  the  highest  character 
should  have  held  up  the  new  volumes  as  they  came  out,  to  show 
to  their  friends  that  they  possessed  the  book  of  which  all  the 
world  were  talking,  than  that  it  should  now  be  banished  from  the 
boudoir  and  the  drawing-room.  But  as  my  friend.  Sir  Charles 
Grandison,  has  no  other  sin  to  answer  for  than  that  of  being  very 
long,  very  tedious,  very  old-fashioned,  and  a  prig,  I  can  not  help 
confessing  that,  in  spite  of  these  faults,  and  perhaps  because  of 
them,  I  think  there  are  worse  books  printed  now-a-days,  and  hail- 
ed with  delight  among  critics  feminine,  than  the  seven  volumes 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  413 

that  gave  such  infinite  delight  to  the  heauties  of  tht,  court  of 
George  the  Second. 

As  pictures  of  manners  I  suspect  them  to  be  worthless.  Rich- 
ardson was  a  citizen  in  an  age  in  which  the  distinctions  of  caste 
were  far  more  strictly  observed  than  now-a-days  ;  and  the  printer 
of  Salisbury  Court,  even  when  retired  to  his  villa  at  North  End, 
had  seen  but  little  of  the  brilUant  circles  which  he  attempted  to 
describe,  and  was  altogether  deficient  in  the  airy  grace  and  bright 
and  glowing  fancy  which  might  have  supplied  the  place  of  expe- 
rience. Compared  with  the  comic  dramatists,  Congreve  and 
Farquhar,  who  have  left  us  such  vivid  pictures  of  the  Mirabels 
and  Millamants,  the  Archers,  and  Mrs.  Sullens  of  that  day, 
Richardson's  portraits  are,  like  himself,  stiff,  prim,  hard,  ungainl}-, 
awkward.  In  manners  he  utterly  fails ;  but  in  character,  in 
sentiment,  and  above  all  in  the  power  of  bringing  his  personages 
into  actual  every-day  life,  he  leaves  every  writer  of  his  time  far 
behind  him.  Somebody  has  said  of  him  very  happily — so  happily 
that  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  Hazlitt, — "  that  the  effect  of 
reading  his  books  is  to  acquire  a  vast  accession  of  near  relations." 
And  it  is  true.  Grandmothers  and  grandfathers,  uncles,  aunts, 
and  cousins  multiply  upon  us ;  we  not  only  become  acquainted 
with  the  people  but  with  their  habitations  ;  Selby  House  and 
Shirley  Manor  are  as  familiar  to  us  as  our  own  dwellings  ;  and 
we  could  find  our  way  to  the  cedar-parlor  blindfold. 

It  was  a  cause  or  a  consequence  of  Richardson's  popularity 
that  he  lived  among  a  perfect  flower-garden  of  young  ladies, 
feeding  upon  their  praises,  always  a  dangerous  diet  for  authors, 
and  talking  and  writing  of  little  else  than  his  difierent  works. 
His  own  family  consisted  of  three  daughters,  of  whom  (although 
his  domestic  character  stands  very  high)  we  hear  little,  while  of 
Miss  Highmore,  Miss  Mulso,  Miss  Westcomb,  the  Miss  Fieldings, 
and  the  Miss  Colliers,  and  their  several  lovers,  we  hear  a  great 
deal.  There  is  even  a  colored  engraving,  curiously  inartistic, 
representing  Richardson  a  smug  and  comely  little  old  man  sitting 
in  the  summer-house  which  he  called  his  grotto,  reading  his 
manuscript  to  a  party  of  three  fair  damsels  and  their  future  hus- 
bands. 

The  lady  who  seeins  to  have  interested  him  most,  whose  letters 
with  his  rejoinders  do  actually  fill  a  volume  and  a  half  of  the  six 
of  which  the  collection  consists,  and  might  easily,  the  editor  says, 


414  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

have  been  cxteiuled  to  six  more,  is  a  certain  Lady  Bradshaigli, 
the  \vite  of  Sir  Roger  Bradshaigh  of  the  Huigh,  Lancashire,  who 
wrote  to  him  first  under  the  feigned  name  of  Balfour,  and  con- 
tinued to  address  him  under  that  appellation  for  a  considerable 
time. 

The  occasion  of  her  first  letter  was  the  suspense  in  which  the 
admirers  of  "  Clarissa"  were  left  as  to  her  fate  by  the  publication 
of  the  work  in  separate  portions  and  at  lengthened  intervals.  The 
story  of  the  book  may  be  told  in  very  few  words.  It  consists  of 
the  betrayal  of  the  heroine  by  her  lover,  a  libertine,  drawn  with 
admirable  spirit  and  skill,  and  endowed  with  so  many  fine  quali- 
ties of  person  and  intellect,  that  many  of  the  author's  friends  im- 
plored as  if  they  had  been  real  persons,  for  the  reformation  of 
Lovelace  and  the  happiness  of  his  fair  mistress. 

Upon  this  hint  spoke  Lady  Bradshaigh  ;  and  her  earnestness 
and  pertinacity  is  really  a  thing  to  wonder  at.  She  sank  upon 
her  knees,  she  begged,  she  reasoned,  she  threatened,  she  stormed. 
There  was  not  a  weapon  in  the  female  armory  that  she  did  not 
force  into  her  service,  and  her  ardor  and  fervency  give  so  much 
eloquence  to  her  pleadings  that  she  has  considerably  the  best  of 
the  dispute  ;  chiefly  because  Richardson  had  not  honesty  enough 
to  tell  her  the  real  cause  of  his  resolution  to  bring  the  story  to  a 
tragic  end,  which  was  of  course  its  artistic  effect ;  but  intrenched 
himself  in  all  sorts  of  pitiful  evasions  and  false  moralities,  instead 
of  saying  frankly  that  a  happy  conclusion  would  have  spoilt  the 
book.  The  author  was  obdurate  and  the  lady  disappointed  ; 
nevertheless  the  correspondence  continued,  and  one  of  the  most 
amusing  and  characteristic  episodes  in  these  six  volumes  is  the 
story  of  a  journey  which  Lady  Bradshaigh  took  to  London,  and 
of  her  introduction  to  her  unknown  correspondent. 

The  great  novelist  was  at  this  time  in  his  sixtieth  year,  and 
the  fair  lady,  a  buxom  country  dame,  might  be  some  ten  or  fif- 
teen years  his  junior  (N.  B.  I  have  remarked  it  as  a  singular  cir- 
cumstance that  we  never  can  ascertain  a  lady's  age,  even  if,  as 
in  this  case,  she  have  been  dead  these  hundred  years,  with  the 
same  absolute  accuracy  with  which  we  can  verily  a  gentleman's 
baptismal  registry)  :  and  whether  from  shyness  or  from  pure  co- 
quetry she  (still  as  Mrs.  Balfour)  makes  an  appointment  to  meet 
him  in  the  Park,  requesting  from  him  a  description  by  which  he 
may  be  recognized.     He  sends  her  the  following  : 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  415 

"  Short,  rather  phmip,  about  five  feet  five  inches,  fair  wig,  one 
hand  generally  in  his  bosom,  the  other  a  cane  in  it,  which  he 
leans  upon  under  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  that  it  may  imperceptibly 
serve  him  as  a  support  when  attacked  by  sudden  tremors  or  diz- 
ziness, of  a  light  brown  complexion,  teeth  not  yet  failing  him." 

What  follows  is  very"  characteristic  : 

"  Looking  directly  foreright  as  passengers  would  imagine,  but 
observing  all  that  stirs  on  either  hand  of  him,  without  movino^ 
his  short  neck  ;  a  regular  even  pace  stealing  away  ground  rather 
than  seeming  to  rid  it  ;  a  gray  eye  too  often  overclouded  by  mis- 
tiness from  the  head  ;  by  chance  lively,  very  lively  if  he  sees  any 
he  loves  ;  if  he  approaches  a  lady  his  eye  is  never  fixed  first  on 
her  face,  but  on  her  feet,  and  rears  it  up  by  degrees,  seeming  to 
set  her  down  as  so-and-so." 

She  actually  did  know  him  by  this  portrait ;  but  had  the  cruelty 
to  keep  him  parading  up  and  down  while  she  surveyed  him  at 
her  leisure,  and  went  away  without  declaring  herself  This  is 
her  own  account  of  the  matter  : 

"  Well,  Sir,  my  curiosity  is  satisfied  as  to  thedistant  view.  I 
passed  you  four  times  last  Saturday  in  the  Park  ;  knew  you  by 
your  own  description  at  least  three  hundred  yards  ofi',  walking 
between  the  trees  and  the  Mall  ;  and  had  an  opportunity  of  sur- 
veying you  unobserved,  your  eyes  being  engaged  among  the  mul- 
titude looking  as  I  knew  for  a  certain  will-o'-the-wisp,  who  I 
have  a  notion  escaped  being  known  to  you,  though  not  your  no- 
tice, for  you  looked  at  me  every  time  I  passed !  but  I  put  on  so 
unconcerned  a  countenance  that  I  am  almost  sui'e  I  deceived  you. 
*     *     *     0  that  this  first  meeting  was  over  I 

"  Shall  I  tell  you.  Sir,  what  it  puts  me  in  mind  of?  WMicn  I 
was  very  young  I  had  a  mind  to  bathe  in  a  cold  bath.  When  I 
came  to  the  edge,  I  tried  it  first  with  one  hand  then  with  the 
other.  In  the  same  manner  my  feet ;  drew  them  back  again ; 
ventured  to  my  ankles,  then  drew  back.  But  having  a  strong  in- 
clination to  go  farther  (being  very  sure  I  should  like  it  were  the 
first  shock  over),  I  at  last  took  a  resolution  and  plunged  at  onco 
over  head  and  ears  ;  and  as  I  imagined  was  delighted  ;  so  that  I 
only  repented  I  had  not  before  found  courage  to  execute  what 
gave  me  so  much  pleasure." 

Still  however  the  lady  coquets  and  the  gentleman  becomes  a 


-IK)  It  E  C  O  L  L  K  C  T  I  O  X  S    OF 

littlo  angry  ;  after  some  repetition  of  his  giiovauces,  he  con- 
tinues : 

"  Yet  I  resolved  to  try  my  fortune  on  Saturday  in  tlie  Park  in 
my  way  to  North  End.  The  day  indeed,  thought  I,  is  not  prom- 
ising ;  but  where  so  great  an  earnestness  is  professed,  and  the 
Lidy  possibly  by  this  time  made  acquainted  with  the  disappoint- 
ment she  has  given  me,  who  knows  but  she  will  be  carried  in  a 
chair  to  the  Park,  to  make  me  amends,  and  there  reveal  herself. 
Three  diiferent  chairs  at  difierent  times  saw  I.  My  hope  there- 
fore not  so  very  mucli  out  of  the  Avay  ;  but  in  none  of  them  the 
lady  I  wished  to  see.  Up  the  Mall  walked  I,  down  the  Mall  and 
up  again  in  my  way  to  North  End.  0  this  dear  will-o'-the-wisp, 
thought  I !  When  nearest  farthest  ofi  "I  Why  should  I  at  this 
time  of  life  I  And  all  the  spiteful  things  I  could  think  of  I 
muttered  to  myself.  And  how,  Madam,  am  I  to  banish  them 
from  my  memory  when  I  see  you  so  very  careful  to  conceal  your- 
self;  when  I  see  you  so  very  apprehensive  of  my  curiosity,  and 
so  little  confiding  in  my  generosity  ?  0  Madam  I  you  know  me 
not !     You  will  not  know  me  I" 

And  so  they  go  on,  the  gentleman  remonstrating,  the  lady 
holding  back  through  fifty  pages  of  letter-press — more  or  less  ;  and 
when  their  cross-purposes  would  have  ended  there  is  no  divining, 
had  not  Lady  Bradshaigh  gone  to  Mr.  Highmore's  to  view  a  por- 
trait of  her  unknown  friend,  where  enough  transpired  to  suggest 
to  the  painter,  who  knew  of  the  correspondence,  that  he  was 
talking  to  the  person  who  had  so  mystified  the  unlucky  author.  He 
discovered  that  the  gentleman  who  escorted  her  was  of  Lanca- 
shire, and  called  Sir  Roger ;  his  servant  heard  the  surname  from 
the  coachman,  and  was  positive  that  it  began  with  a  B ;  and  af- 
ter so  much  had  been  done  in  the  way  of  detection  the  fair  de- 
linquent avowed  herself,  and  the  game  of  hide-and-seek  was 
fairly  over.  Let  it  be  added,  that  in  spite  of  all  this  nonsense. 
Lady  Bradshaigh  was  a  warm-hearted  and  well-conducted  wo- 
man, and  that  her  devotion  to  the  Avriter  of  her  idolatry  ended 
only  with  his  life. 

I  have  said  that  Richardson's  correspondents  were  almost  ex- 
clusively feminine,  although  there  are  a  few  letters  from  Dr. 
Young,  Colley  Gibber,  Aaron  Hill,  and  others  of  that  class,  and 
one  note  from  Dr.  Johnson,  whom  our  printer,  familiar  with 
kind  and  generous  actions,  had  had  the  honor  to  bail.     These  fe- 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  417 

male  correspondents  all,  Math  one  exception,  bear  out  an  opinion 
which  I  have  long  ventured  to  entertain  of  the  general  inferiority 
of  women's  letters.  For  the  truth  of  which  I  would  only  appeal 
to  the  collections  of  such  as  are  most  celebrated  in  that  line 
from  the  over-rated  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  down  to  Anna 
Seward.  Mrs.  Montagu,  Mrs.  Delany,  Mrs.  Vesey,  Miss  Talbot, 
Miss  Bowdler,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Carter,  Mrs.  Hannah  More — what 
are  they  ?  There  is  to  be  sure  one  great  exception  in  general 
literature — for  Madame  de  Sevigne  is,  perhaps,  the  most  delight- 
ful letter- writer  who  ever  put  pen  to  paper.  And  there  is  another 
exception,  also  a  foreigner,  in  this  collection — an  exception  all 
the  more  charming  because  foreign,  for  the  German  idiom  un- 
doubtedly adds  grace  and  freshness  to  the  sweet  simplicity  of 
Mrs.  Klopstock's  commimications.  I  need  not  apologize  for  tran- 
scribing them  all.  Would  that  she  had  been  spared  to  write 
more  : 

"  Hamburg,  November  29th,  1750. 
"  Honored  Sir, 

"  Will  you  permit  me  to  take  this  opportunity,  in  sending  a 
letter  to  Dr.  Young,  to  address  myself  to  you  ?  It  is  very  long 
ago  that  I  wished  to  do  it.  Having  finished  your  "  Clarissa" 
(oh,  the  heavenly  book  I)  I  could  have  prayed  you  to  write  the 
history  of  a  manly  Clarissa,  but  I  had  not  courage  enough  at  that 
time.  I  should  have  it  no  more  to-day,  as  this  is  only  my  first 
English  letter — but  I  have  it  I  It  may  be  because  1  am  now 
Klopstock's  wife  (I  believe  you  know  my  husband  by  Mr.  Ho- 
horst),  and  then  I  was  only  the  single  young  girl.  You  have 
since  written  the  manly  Clarissa  without  my  prayer.  Oh,  you 
have  done  it  to  the  great  joy  and  thanks  of  all  your  happy  read- 
ers I  Now  you  can  write  no  more,  you  must  write  the  history 
of  an  angel. 

"  Poor  Hohorst  I  he  is  gone.  Not  killed  in  the  battle  (he  was 
present  at  two),  but  by  the  fever.  The  Hungarian  hussars  have 
taken  your  works  with  our  letters,  and  all  what  he  was  worth,  a 
little  time  before  his  death.  But  the  King  of  Prussia  recompensed 
him  with  a  company  of  cavalry.  Poor  friend  !  he  did  not  long 
enjoy  it. 

"  He  has  made  me  acquainted  with  all  your  lovely  daughters. 
I  kiss  them  all  with  my  best  sisterly  kiss  ;  but  especially  Mfh. 
Martha,  of  whom  he  says  that  she  writes  as  her  father.     Tell  her 

8* 


418  KECULLKCTIONS    OK 

in  my  name,  dear  fc'ir,  if  this  bo  true  that  it  is  an  ali'air  oi'  con- 
science not  to  let  print  her  writings.  Though  I  am  otherwise  of 
that  sentiment,  that  a  woman  who  writes  not  thus,  or  as  Mrs. 
Howe,  should  never  let  print  her  works.  Will  you  pardon  me 
tliis  first  long  letter.  Sir?  Will  you  tell  me  if  I  shall  write  a 
second  i     I  am,  honored  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant, 

"  M.  Klopstock." 

"  Hamburg,  March  14th,  1758. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Sir,  to  wish  to  know  every  thing  of  your 
Hamburg  kindred.  Then  1  will  obey,  and  speak  of  nothing  but 
myself  in  this  letter. 

"  You  will  know  all  what  concerns  me.  Love,  dear  Sir,  is  all 
what  me  concerns.  And  love  shall  be  all  what  I  will  tell  you  in 
this  letter. 

"  In  one  happy  night  I  read  my  husband's  poem,  '  The  Messiah.' 
I  was  extremely  touched  with  it.  The  next  day  I  asked  one  of 
his  friends  who  was  the  author  of  this  poem  ?  and  this  was  the 
first  time  I  heard  Klopstock's  name.  1  believe  I  fell  immediately 
in  love  with  him.  At  the  least  my  thoughts  were  ever  with  him 
filled,  especially  because  his  friend  told  me  very  nruch  of  his 
character.  But  I  had  no  hopes  ever  to  see  him,  vfhen  quite  un- 
expectedly I  heard  that  he  should  pass  through  Hamburg.  I 
wrote  immediately  to  the  same  friend,  for  procuring  by  his  means 
that  I  might  see  the  author  of  '  The  Messiah'  when  in  Hamburg. 
He  told  him  that  a  certain  girl  at  Hamburg  wished  to  see  him, 
and  for  all  recommendation  showed  him  some  letters  in  which  I 
made  bold  to  criticize  Klopstock's  verses.  Klopstock  came,  and 
came  to  me.  I  must  confess  that  though  greatly  prepossessed  of 
his  qualities,  I  never  thought  him  the  amiable  youth  whom  I 
found  him.  This  made  its  effect.  After  having  seen  him  two 
hours,  I  was  obliged  to  pass  the  evening  in  a  company  which 
never  had  been  so  wearisome  to  me.  I  could  not  speak  ;  I  could 
not  play  ;  I  thought,  I  saw  nothing  but  Klopstock.  I  saw  him 
the  next  day  and  the  following,  and  we  were  very  seriously  friends. 
But  the  fourth  day  he  departed.  It  was  a  strong  hour  the  hour 
of  his  departure.  He  M'rote  soon  after ;  and  from  that  time  our 
correspondence  began  to  be  a  very  diligent  one.  I  sincerely  be- 
lieved my  love  to  be  friendship.  I  spoke  with  my  friends  of 
nothing  but  Klopstock,  and  showed  his  letters.     They  rallied  at 


A     LITERARY     L  I  P^  K.  419 

me,  and  said  I  was  in  love.  I  rallied  them  again,  and  said  that 
they  must  have  a  very  friendshipless  heart,  if  they  had  no  idea  of 
friendship  to  a  man  as  well  as  to  a  woman.  Thus  it  continued 
for  eight  months,  in  which  time  my  friends  found  as  much  love 
in  Klopstock's  letters  as  in  me.  I  perceived  it  like^vise,  but  I 
would  not  beheve  it.  At  the  last  Klopstock  said  plainly  that  he 
loved  ;  and  I  startled  as  for  a  wrong  thing.  I  answered  that  it 
was  no  love  but  friendship,  as  it  was,  what  I  felt  for  him  ;  we  had 
not  seen  one  another  enough  to  love  (as  if  love  must  have  more 
time  than  friendship)  !  This  was  sincerely  my  meaning,  and  I 
had  this  meaning  till  Klopstock  came  again  to  Hamburg.  This 
he  did  a  year  after  we  had  seen  one  another  the  first  time.  We 
saw  we  were  friends  ;  we  loved,  and  we  believed  that  we  loA^ed  ; 
and  a  short  time  after  I  could  even  tell  Klopstock  that  I  loved. 
But  we  were  obliged  to  part  again  and  wait  two  years  for  our 
wedding.  My  mother  would  not  let  marry  me  a  stranger.  I 
could  marry  then  without  her  consentment,  as  by  the  death  of  my 
father  my  ibrtune  depended  not  on  her.  But  this  was  a  horrible 
idea  for  me,  and  thank  Heaven  that  I  have  prevailed  by  prayers  ! 
At  this  time,  knowing  Klopstock,  she  loves  him  as  her  lifely  son, 
and  thanks  God  that  she  has  not  persisted.  We  married,  and  I  am 
the  happiest  wife  in  the  world.  In  some  few  months  it  will  be 
four  years  that  I  am  so  happy,  and  still  I  dote  upon  Klopstock  as 
if  he  was  my  bridegroom. 

"  H'  you  knew  my  husband,  you  would  not  wonder.  If  you 
knew  his  poem  I  could  describe  him  very  briefly,  by  saying  he  is 
in  all  respects  what  he  is  as  a  poet.  This  I  can  say  with  all 
wifely  modesty.  But  I  dare  not  speak  of  my  husband  ;  I  am  all 
raptures  when  i  do  it.  And  as  happy  as  1  am  in  love,  so  happy 
am  I  in  friendship  in  my  mother,  two  elder  sisters,  and  five  other 
women.     How  rich  I  am  ! 

"  Sir,  you  have  willed  that  I  should  speak  of  myself,  but  I  fear 
I  have  done  it  too  much.     Yet  you  see  how  it  interests  me. 

"  I  am,  Sir,  Sec.  kc.  See." 

"  Hamburg,  May  Otli,  1758. 

"  It  is  not  possible,  Sir,  to  tell  you  what  a  joy  your  letters  give 

me.     My  heart  is  very  able   to  esteem  the  favor  that  you  in 

your  venerable  age  are  so  condescending  good  to  answer  so  soon 

the  letters  of  an  unknown  young  woman,  who  has  no  other  merit 


420  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 

tliau  a  hcarl  full  of  friendship,  though  lit  so  many  miles  of  dis- 
tance. 

"  It  will  be  a  delightful  occupation  for  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Rich- 
ardson, to  make  you  more  acquainted  with  my  husband's  poem. 
Nobody  can  do  it  better  than  I,  being  the  person  who  knows  the 
most  of  that  which  is  not  yet  published  ;  being  always  present  at 
the  birth  of  the  young  verses,  which  begin  always  by  fragments 
liere  and  there  of  a  subject  of  which  his  soul  is  just  then  filled. 
He  has  many  great  fragments  of  the  whole  work  ready.  You 
may  think  that  two  people,  who  love  as  we  do.  have  no  need  of 
two  chambers.  We  are  always  in  the  same.  I,  with  my  little 
work,  still,  still,  only  regarding  my  husband's  sw^eet  face,  which 
is  so  venerable  at  that  time  !  with  tears  of  devotion  and  all  the 
sublimity  of  the  subject.  My  husband  reading  me  his  young 
verses,  and  suffering  my  criticisms.  Ten  books  are  published, 
which  I  think  probably  the  middle  of  the  whole.  I  will  as  soon 
as  I  can,  translate  you  the  arguments  of  these  ten  books,  and 
what  besides  I  think  of  them.  The  verses  of  the  poem  are  with- 
out rhymes,  and  are  hexameters,  which  sort  of  verses  my  husband 
has  been  the  first  to  introduce  in  our  language  ;  we  being  still 
closely  attached  to  the  rhymes  and  iambics. 

"  And  our  dear  Dr.  Young  has  been  so  ill  ?  But  he  is  better, 
I  thank  God  along  with  you.  And  you,  my  dear,  dear  friend, 
have  not  hope  of  cure  of  a  severe  nervous  malady  ?  How  I  trem- 
bled as  I  read  it  !  I  pray  God  to  give  to  you  at  the  least  patience 
and  alleviation.  Though  I  can  read  very  well  your  handwriting, 
you  shall  write  no  more  if  it  is  incommodious  to  you.  Be  so  good 
to  dictate  only  to  Mrs.  Patty  ;  it  will  be  very  agreeable  to  me  to 
have  so  amiable  a  correspondent.  And  then  I  will  still  more 
than  now  preserve  the  two  of  your  own  handwriting  as  treasures. 

"  I  am  very  glad.  Sir,  that  you  will  take  my  English  as  it  is. 
I  knew  very  well  that  it  may  not  always  be  Enghsh,  but  I  thought 
for  you  it  was  intelligible.  My  husband  asked  me,  as  I  was 
writing  my  first  letter,  if  I  would  not  write  in  French  ?  '  No,' 
Eaid  I,  '  I  will  not  write  in  this  pretty  but  fade  language  to  Mr. 
Richardson'  (though  so  polite,  so  cultivated  and  no  longer  ya<ie  in 
the  mouth  of  a  Bossuet).  As  far  as  I  know,  neither  we  nor  you 
nor  the  Italians  have  the  word  fade.  How  have  the  French 
found  this  characteristic  word   for  their  nation  ?      Our  German 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  421 

tongue,  which  only  begins  to  be  cultivated,  has  much  more  con- 
formity with  the  English  than  the  French. 

"  I  wish,  Sir,  I  could  fulfill  your  request  of  bringing  you  ac- 
quainted with  so  many  good  people  as  you  think  of  Though  I 
love  my  friends  dearly,  and  though  they  are  good,  I  have  how- 
ever much  to  pardon,  except  in  the  single  Klopstock  alone.  He 
is  good,  really  good,  good  at  the  bottom — in  all  the  foldings  of  his 
heart.  I  know  him  ;  and  sometimes  I  think  if  we  knew  others 
in  the  same  manner,  the  better  we  should  find  them.  For  it  may 
be  that  an  action  displeases  us  which  would  please  us,  if  we  knew 
its  true  aim  and  whole  extent.  No  one  of  my  friends  is  so  happy 
as  I  am  ;  but  no  one  has  had  courage  to  marry  as  I  did.  They 
have  married  as  people  marry  ;  and  they  are  happy  as  people  are 
happy.  Only  one,  as  I  may  say  my  dearest  friend,  is  unhappy, 
though  she  had  as  good  a  purpose  as  I  myself  She  has  married 
in  my  absence  ;  but  had  I  been  present,  I  might,  it  may  be,  have 
been  mistaken  in  her  husband  as  well  as  she. 

"  How  long  a  letter  is  this  again  I  But  I  can  write  no  short 
ones  to  you.     Compliments  from  my  husband,  &c.  &c." 

Hamburg,  August  27th,  1758. 
"  Why  think  you,  dear  Sir,  that  I  answer  so  late  ?  I  will  tell 
you  my  reasons. — But  before  all,  how  does  Miss  Patty,  and  how 
do  yourself  ?  Have  not  you  guessed  that  I,  summing  up  all  my 
happinesses,  and  not  speaking  of  children,  had  none  ?  Yes,  Sir, 
this  has  been  my  only  wish  ungratified  for  these  four  years.  I 
have  been  more  than  once  unhappy  with  disappointments  :  but 
yet  thanks,  thanks  to  God,  I  am  in  full  hope  to  be  mother  in  the 
month  of  November.  The  little  preparations  for  my  child  and 
child-bed  (and  they  are  so  dear  to  me)  have  taken  so  much  time 
that  I  could  not  answer  your  letter,  nor  give  the  promised  scenes 
of  '  The  Messiah.'  This  is  likewise  the  reason  why  I  am  still 
here,  for  properly  we  dwell  in  Copenhagen.  Our  staying  here  is 
only  a  visit  (but  a  long  one)  which  we  pay  my  family.  I  not 
being  able  to  travel  yet,  my  husband  has  been  obliged  to, make  a 
little  voyage  alone  to  Copenhagen  I  He  is  absent — a  cloud  over 
my  happiness  !  He  will  soon  return. — But  what  docs  that  help  ? 
He  is  yet  equally  absent  I — We  write  to  each  otlior  every  post — 
but  what  are  letters  to  presence  ? — But  I  will  speak  no  more  of 
this  little  cloud  ;  I  will  only  tell  my  happiness  !     But  I  can  not 


4'22  UKCULLECT  lUNS    OF 

tell  huw  1  rejoice  I  A  sou  of  my  clear  Klopslock  I  Oh,  when 
shall  1  have  him  ?  It  is  long  since  1  have  made  the  remark,  that 
•reniuses  do  not  enfrender  peaiuses.  No  children  at  all,  bad  sons, 
or  at  the  most  lovely  daughters  like  you  and  Milton.  But  a 
dausrhter  or  a  son  only,  with  a  good  heart  without  genius,  I  will 
nevertheless  love  dearly. 

"  I  think  that  about  this  time  a  nephew  of  mine  will  wait  on 
you.  His  name  is  Wivlhem,  a  young  rich  merchant,  who  has 
no  bad  qualities,  and  several  good,  which  he  has  still  to  cultivate. 
His  mother  was,  I  think,  tAventy  years  older  than  I,  but  we  other 
children  loved  her  dearly  like  a  mother.  She  had  an  excellent 
character,  but  is  long  since  dead. 

"  This  is  no  letter  but  only  a  newspaper  of  your  Hamburg 
daughter.  When  I  have  my  husband  and  my  child  I  will  write 
you  more  (if  God  gives  me  health  and  life).  You  will  think  that 
1  shall  be  not  a  mother  only  but  a  nurse  also  ;  though  the  latter 
(thank  God  that  the  former  is  not  so  too)  is  quite  against  fashion 
and  good  breeding,  and  though  nobody  can  think  it  possible  to  be 
always  with  the  child  at  home  I 

"M.  Klopstock." 

This  was  the  last  letter  from  this  sweet  creature.  The  next  in 
the  series  is  from  a  different  hand. 

"  Hanover,  December  21st,  1758. 
"  Honored  Sir, 

"  As  perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  one  of  your  fair  correspond- 
ents, Mrs.  Klopstock,  died  in  a  very  dreadful  manner,  in  child- 
bed, I  think  myself  obliged  to  acquaint  you  with  this  most  mel- 
ancholy accident. 

"  Mr.  Klopstock,  in  the  first  motion  of  his  affliction,  composed 
an  ode  to  God  Almighty,  which  I  have  not  yet  seen,  but  I  hope 
to  get  by-and-by. 

"  I  shall  esteem  myself  highly  favored  by  a  line  or  two  from 
any  of  your  family,  for  I  presume  you  sometimes  kindly  re- 
member 

"  Your  most  humble  servant, 

"  And  great  admirer, 

"  L.  L.  G.  Major." 

A  subsequent  letter  contradicts  the  fact  of  the  ode's  being  com- 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  423 

posed  at  this  time.  But  a  comparison  of  the  dates  of  Mr.  Major's 
communication  and  of  Mrs.  Klopstock's  last  interesting  letter, 
still  brings  this  poetizing  a  great  calamity  far  too  near  the  time 
of  its  occurrence  to  be  satisfactory  to  those  who  have  read  and 
sympathized  with  the  quick  feelings  of  the  devoted  wife.  It  is 
pleasanter  to  remember  that  Klopstock  never  married  again,  till, 
in  his  old  age,  a  few  years  before  his  death,  he  had  the  ceremony 
performed  between  himself  and  a  kinswoman,  who  lived  with 
him,  in  order  to  entitle  her,  as  his  widow,  to  the  pensions  he  en- 
joyed from  different  Courts. 


42-i  liEC0LLECT10^■S    OF 


XXXIII. 

FINE    SINGLE    POEMS. 

SIR.    WALTER    SCOTT,  &C. 

Nothing  seems  stranger  amid  the  strange  fluctuations  of 
popularity  than  the  way  in  which  the  songs  and  shorter  poems 
of  the  most  eminent  writers  occasionally  pass  from  the  highest 
vogue  into  the  most  complete  oblivion,  and  are  at  once  forgotten 
as  if  they  had  never  been.  Scott's  spirited  ballad,  "  The  Bonnets 
of  Bonnie  Dundee,"  is  a  case  in  point.  Several  persons  (among 
the  rest  Mrs.  Hughes,  the  valued  friend  of  the  author)  have  com- 
plained to  me,  not  only  that  it  is  not  included  among  Sir  Wal- 
ter's ballads,  but  that  they  were  unable  to  discover  it  else- 
where. Upon  mentioning  this  to  another  dear  friend  of  mine, 
the  man  who,  of  all  whom  I  have  known,  has  the  keenest  scent 
for  literary  game,  and  is  the  most  certain  to  discover  a  lost  poem, 
he  threw  himself  upon  the  track,  and  failing  to  obtain  a  printed 
copy,  succeeded  in  procuring  one  in  manuscript,  taken  down  from 
the  lips  of  a  veteran  vocalist  ;  not,  as  I  should  judge,  from  his  re- 
citation, but  from  his  singing,  for  it  is  no  uncommon  thing  with 
singers  to  be  unable  to  divorce  the  sense  from  the  sound,  so  that 
you  must  have  the  music  with  the  words,  or  go  without  them 
altogether. 

At  all  events  this  transcript  is  a  curiosity.  The  whole  ballad 
is  written  as  if  it  were  prose  :  no  capital  at  the  beginning  of  the 
lines;  no  break,  as  indicated  by  the  rhyme,  at  the  conclusion; 
no  division  between  the  stanzas.  All  these  ceremonies  are  cast 
aside,  with  a  bold  contempt  for  vulgar  usages,  and  the  entire 
song  thrown  into  one  long  paragraph.  I  think  it  is  Cowper  who 
wrote  a  rhyming  letter  upon  the  same  principle  ;  but  the  jingle 
being  more  obtrusive,  and  the  chorus  a  wanting,  the  efiect  of  the 
intentional  pleasantry  is  far  less  ludicrous  than  that  produced  by 
this  unconscious  and  graver  error. 


A     LITEKARY     LIFE.  425 

I  endeavored  to  restore  the  natural  divisions  of  the  verse  ;  and 
having  since  discovered  a  printed  copy,  buried  in  the  Doom  of 
Devorgoil,  where  of  course  nobody  looked  for  it,  I  am  delighted 
to  transfer  to  my  pages  one  of  the  most  spirited  and  characteristic 
ballads  ever  written. 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  'twas  Claverhouse  who  spoke, 

Ere  the  king's  crown  shall  fall  there  are  crowns  to  be  broke; 

So  let  each  cavalier  who  loves  honor  and  me, 

Come  follow  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can. 
Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up  your  men ; 
Come  open  the  westport  and  let  us  gang  free, 
And  its  room  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee  ! 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the  street. 
The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the  drums  they  are  beat ; 
But  the  Provost  douce  man,  said,  "  Just  e'en  let  him  be. 
The  Gude  Town  is  weel  quit  of  that  Deil  of  Dundee  !" 
Come  fill  up  the  cup,  &c. 

As  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of  the  Bow 
Ilk  carline  was  flyting  and  shaking  her  pow ; 
But  the  young  plants  of  grace  they  looked  cowthic  and  slco, 
Thikinng  luck  to  thy  bonnet,  thou  Bonny  Dundee  ! 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  &c. 

With  sour-featured  Whigs  the  Grass-market  was  thranged 
As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be  hanged ; 
There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was  fear  in  each  e'e, 
As  they  watched  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  &c. 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits  and  had  spears. 
And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  cavaliers ; 
But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads,  and  the  causeway  was  free 
At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  &c. 

He  spurred  to  the  foot  of  the  proud  castle  rock, 
And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly  si)oke ; 
"  Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows  speak  twa  words  or  three    __ 
For  the  love  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee." 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  &c. 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way  he  goes— 
"  Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of  Montrose ! 
Your  Grace  in  short  space  shall  liear  tidings  of  me 
Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dund<'<'. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  &c. 


426  UECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

'■  Tlioiv  are  hills  beyond  Pentlami,  and  lands  boj'ond  Forlli, 
If  there's  lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there's  chiefs  in  the  North, 
There  are  wild  Dnniewassals  three  thousand  times  tlircc 
"Will  cry  '  Hoigh  !'  for  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  till  up  my  cup,  &c. 

"  There's  brass  on  the  target  of  barkened  bull-hide, 
There's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles  beside ; 
The  brass  shall  be  burnished,  the  steel  shall  flash  free 
At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  &c. 

"  Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the  rocks, — 
Ere  I  own  an  usurper  I'll  crouch  with  the  fox  ; 
And  tremble,  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst  of  your  glee 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet  and  me." 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  &c. 

He  waved  his  proud  hand,  and  tlie  trumpets  were  blown, 

The  kettle-drums  clashed,  and  the  horsemen  rode  on. 

Till  on  Ravelston's  cliffs  and  on  Clermiston's  lea 

Died  awaj'  the  wild  war-notes  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can. 
Come  saddle  the  horses,  and  call  up  the  men, 
Come  open  your  gates,  and  let  me  gae  free, 
For  it's  up  with  the  bomiets  of  Bonny  Dundee ! 

There  are  abundant  indications  that  the  "  Bonnets  of  Bonny 
Dundee"  was  a  favorite  with  its  illustrious  writer.  The  following 
song,  from  "The  Pirate,"  is  interesting,  not  merely  from  its  own 
merit,  but  from  an  anecdote  related  by  Mr.  Lock  hart.  When  on 
a  tour  in  the  North  of  England,  it  was  sung  to  Sir  Walter  as  set 
by  Mrs.  Robert  Arkwright.  "Beautiful  words,"  observed  he; 
"  Byron's  of  course."     He  was  much  shocked  when  undeceived. 

The  stanzas  themselves  are  deeply  touching.  They  form  part 
of  a  serenade,  sung  by  Cleveland  under  Minna's  window,  when 
compelled  to  return  to  his  ship. 

Farewell !  farewell !  the  voice  you  hear 

Has  left  its  last  soft  tone  with  you ; 
Its  next  must  join  the  seaward  cheer. 

And  shout  among  the  shouting  crew. 

The  accents  which  I  scarce  could  form, 

Beneath  your  frown's  controlling  check, 
Must  give  the  word  above  the  storm 

To  cut  the  mast  and  clear  the  wreck. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  427 

The  timid  eye  I  dared  not  raise, 
The  hand  that  shoolt  when  pressed  to  thine, 

Must  point  the  guns  upon  the  chase, 
Must  bid  the  deadly  cutlass  shine. 

To  all  I  love,  or  hope,  or  fear, 

Honor  or  own,  a  long  adieu ! 
To  all  that  life  has  soft  and  dear, 

Farewell !  save  memory  of  you  I 

These  lines  have  much  of  the  flow  peculiar  to  Lord  Byron, 
and  were  therefore  perhaps  selected  as  adapted  to  her  purpose  by 
their  accomplished  composer.  In  general,  musical  people  say 
that  Sir  Walter  Scott's  songs  are  ill  suited  to  music,  difficult  to 
set,  difficult  to  sing.  One  can  not  help  suspecting  that  the  fault 
rests  with  the  music,  that  can  not  blend  itself  with  such  poetry. 
Where  in  our  language  shall  we  find  more  delicious  melody  than 
in  "  County  Guy  ?"  The  rhythm  of  the  verse  rivals  the  fancy 
of  the  imagery  and  the  tenderness  of  the  thought. 

Ah  !   County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea ; 
The  orange  flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark  his  lay  who  trilled  all  day. 

Sits  hushed,  his  partner  nigh  ; 
Bee,  bird,  and  bower  confess  the  hour : — 

But  where  is  County  Guy  1 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear ; 
To  beauty  shy  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  cavalier. 
The  star  of  love,  all  stars  above, 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky ; 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know  :  — 

But  where  is  County  Guy  1 

This  little  poem  can  hardly  be  surpassed  ;  but  here  are  two 
others,  one  by  the  late,  and  one  by  the  present  Laureate,  worthy 
to  be  printed  on  the  same  page. 

LUCY. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways, 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 


428  UECOLLECTIONS    OF 

A  niaiil  whom  there  were  none  to  praiso, 
And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye ; 
Fair  as  a  star  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

Wh<!n  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh, 

The  difference  to  me  ! 

Mr.  Tennyson's  delicious  song,  published  only  in  the  later  edi- 
tions of"  The  Princess,"  is  less  generally  know^n. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory: 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
Blow,  bugle,  answer  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

Oh  hark  !    oh,  hear  !    how  thin  and  clear 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 
Oh  !    sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elf-land  faintly  blowing. 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying, 
Blow,  bugle,  answer  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0  love,  they  die  on  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill,  on  field,  on  river ; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul 

And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

It  is  like  a  descent  from  Fairj'^land  to  the  wild  stormy  ocean, 
to  turn  from  the  dying  falls  of  Mr.  Tennyson's  stanzas  to  the 
homely  sea-song  of  Allan  Cunningham.  And  yet  that  sea-song 
has  high  merit ;  it  resembles  the  bold,  stalwart  form,  the  free 
and  generous  spirit  of  the  author,  one  of  the  noblest  specimens  of 
the  Scottish  peasant,  elevated  into  a  superior  rank,  as  much  by 
conduct  and  character,  as  by  talent  and  industrj'. 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 
A  wind  that  follows  fast, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  429 

And  fills  the  white  and  swelling  sail,. 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast : 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lea. 

"  Oh  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind !" 

I  heai'd  a  fair  one  cry ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 

And  white  waves  heaving  high  ! 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 

The  good  ship  light  and  free  ; 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home. 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon. 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 
And  hark !   the  music  mariners 

The  wind  is  piping  loud ! 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free ; 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea! 

One  of  the  most  charming  of  Enghsh  song- writers,  happily  still 
spared  to  us,  is  he  who,  mider  the  name  of  Barry  Cornwall,  has 
given  so  many  fine  lyrics  to  our  language.  What  can  be  more 
spirited  than  this  Bacchanalian  song  ? 

Sing! — who  sings 

To  her  who  wearcth  a  hundred  rings  1 
Ah,  who  is  this  lady  fine  1 
The  Vine,  boys,  the  Vine  ! 
The  mother  of  mighty  wine. 
A  roamer  is  sho 
O'er  wall  and  tree. 
And  sometimes  very  good  company. 

Drink ! — who  drinks 

To  her  who  blusheth  and  never  thinks  1 
Ah,  who  is  this  maid  of  mine  1 
The  Grape,  boys,  the  Grape ! 
Oh,  never  let  her  escape 
Until  she  be  turned  to  wine. 
For  bettor  is  .she 
Than  Vine  can  be, 
And  very,  very  good  company. 


430  R  K  C  O  I.  L  K  C  T I O  N  S    OF 

Dream  ! — who  drcaius 

Of  the  God  that  governs  a  thousand  streams  1 
All,  who  is  this  spirit  finel 
'Tis  Wine,  boys,  'tis  Wine ! 
God  Bacchus,  a  friend  of  mine. 
Oh,  better  is  he 
Than  grape  or  tree, 
And  the  best  of  all  good  company. 

I  can  not  resist  the  temptation  of  adding  to  the  stanzas  of  Iho 
living  poet  one  from  him  who  can  never  die. 

SONG.— FROM  "  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA." 

Come,  thou  monarch  of  the  vine, 
Plumpy  Bacchus  with  pink  eyne, 
In  thy  vats  our  cares  are  drowned ; 
With  thy  grapes  our  hairs  be  crowned ; 
Cup  us  till  the  world  go  round ; 
Cup  us  till  the  world  go  round. 

Of  Thomas  Hood's   four  great  lyrical  poems,  the  greatest  is 
"  The  Bridge  of  Sighs  ;"  it  is  one  gush  of  tenderness  and  charity. 

One  more  unfortunate 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young  and  so  fair ! 

Look  at  her  garments, 
Clinging  like  cerements ; 
While  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing ; 
Take  her  up  instantly. 
Loving  not  lothing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her : 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  431 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny, 
Rash  and  undutiful; 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still  for  all  slips  of  hers 
One  of  Eve's  family, 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb ; 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses : 
While  wonderment  guesse.'j 
Where  was  her  home. 

Who  was  her  father  1 

Who  was  her  mother'? 

Had  she  a  sister"? 

Had  she  a  brother  1 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 

Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other "? 

Alas  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun ! 
Oh  !   it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly. 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed. 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement, 

From  garret  to  basement, 

She  stood  with  amazement 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver, 


482  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

15iit  not  the  dark  arch 
Or  the  hlaek  Howiiig  river: 
Mud  from  life's  history 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 
Swift  to  be  hurled; 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world. 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly, 
The  rough  river  ran ; 
Over  the  brink  of  it 
Picture  it,  think  of  it 
Dissolute  man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly 
Lift  her  with  care ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young  and  so  fair ! 
Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  so  rigidly, 
Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them ; 
And  her  eyes  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly ! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity. 
As  when  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily. 
Spurned  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest ; 
Cross  her  hands  humbly. 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behavior. 
And  leaving  with  meekness 
Her  sins  to  her  Savior ! 

Perhaps  the  best  companion — companion  in  contrast — to  "  The 
Bridge  of  Sighs,"  is  Coleridge's  "  Genevieve!" 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  433 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights. 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love 
And  feed  his  sacred  fiame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
AVhen  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve, 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy. 
My  own  dear  Genevieve. 

She  leant  against  the  armed  man. 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight, 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope !  my  joy  !  ray  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand, 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land : 

I  told  her  how  he  pined— and  oh  !  * 

The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  told  another's  love, 
Interpreted  ray  own  ! 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
And  she  forgave  m(;,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondlv  on  her  face. 
T 


434  UKCOLLKOTIONS    OF 

Hut  wlu'ii  1  told  llu-  I'nu'l  bi'Din 
T'liit  cni/ed  that  bulil  and  lovoly  knight, 
And  how  he  crossed  the  mountain  wood 
Nor  rested  day  or  night; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  ghide, 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright, 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend 
This  miserable  knight ; 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leapt  among  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land ; 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees, 

And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain, 

And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; 

And  how  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave, 
And  how  his  madness  went  away 
When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay ; 

His  dying  words — But  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity. 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve  ; 
The  music,  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve; 

»  And  hopes  and  fears  that  kindle  hope. 

An  undistjnguishable  throng. 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued. 
Subdued  and  cherished  long! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight. 

She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame, 

And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream 

1  heard  her  breathe  mv  name. 


A    LITEEARY    LIFE.  435 

Her  bosom  heaved,  slie  stept  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept, 
Then  suddenly  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  inclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  in  a  meek  embrace  ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 

How  charmingly  Milton  has  fitted  his  versc  to  his  subject  in 
the  "  Song  on  May  Morning." 

Now  the  bright  Morning  Star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May !  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth  and  youth  and  warm  desire ; 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing. 
Hill  and  dale  can  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee  and  wish  thee  long. 

The  wild  and  desolate  stanzas,  supposed  to  be  suggested  by  an 
equally  wild  and  desolate  landscape  in  Alton  Locke,  are  very 
touching.  I  am  a  neighbor  of  Mr.  Kingsley's  now  ;  if  I  live  to 
write  another  book  1  hope  to  be  privileged  to  call  myself  his 
friend. 

"  0  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  homo. 
And  call  the  cattle  home. 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee ;" 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi'  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand. 


436  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

And  round  and  round  tho  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see ; 
Tlie  blinding  mist  came  down  and  liid  the  laud — 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"  t)h,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair — 
0'  drowned  maiden's  liair, 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  1 
Was  never  salmon  j'et  that  shone  so  fair, 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  crawling  foam. 
The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea ; 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 

Another  poem,  quite  as  desolate  and  far  more  painful,  inasmuch 
as  the  tale  of  sufieriug  is  reflected  back  upon  the  author,  is  "  The 
Castaway,"  the  last  verses  that  poor  Cowper  ever  wrote.  Every 
one  knows  that  the  terrible  gloom  which  overshadowed  that  fine 
mind  arose  from  insanity ;  and  I  know  a  story  of  madness  among 
his  near  friends,  and  I  believe  also  his  blood  relations,  almost  as 
affecting. 

In  early  youth  I  was  well  acquainted  with  two  old  ladies,  Mrs. 
Theodosia  and  Frances  Hill,  sisters  to  the  "  Joe  Hill,"  the  favor- 
ite and  constant  friend,  who  figures  so  frequently  in  Cowper's 
correspondence.  These  excellent  persons  lived  at  Reading,  and 
were  conspicuous  through  the  town  for  their  peculiarities  of  dress 
and  appearance  Shortest  and  smallest  of  women,  they  adhered 
to  the  costume  of  fifty  years  before,  and  were  never  seen  without 
the  high-lappeted  caps,  the  enormous  hoops,  brocaded  gowns,  ruf- 
fles, aprons,  and  furbelows  of  our  grandmothers.  They  tottered 
along  upon  high-heeled  shoes,  and  flirted  fans  emblazoned  with 
the  history  of  Pamela.  Nevertheless,  such  was  the  respect  com- 
manded by  tlieir  thorough  gentility,  their  benevolence,  and  their 
courtesy,  that  the  very  boys  in  the  streets  forgot  to  laugh  at  wo- 
men so  blameless  and  so  kind.  An  old  housekeeper,  who  had 
been  their  waiting-maid  for  half  a  lifetime,  partook  of  their  pop- 
ularity. Their  brother  and  his  wife  inhabited  a  beautiful  place 
in   the  neighborhood  (afterward    bequeathed  to    the    celebrated 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  437 

Whiggish  wit,  Joseph  Jekyl),  and  until  the  sisters  approached 
the  age  of  eighty,  nothing  could  be  smoother  than  the  current 
of  their  calm  and  virtuous  life.  At  that  period  Mrs.  Theodosia, 
the  elder,  sank  into  imbecility,  and  Mrs.  Frances,  a  woman  of 
considerable  ability  and  feeling,  broke  all  at  once  into  incurable 
madness.  Both  were  pronounced  to  be  harmless,  and  were  left 
in  their  own  house,  with  two  or  three  female  servants,  under  the 
care  of  the  favorite  attendant  who  had  lived  with  them  so  long. 
For  a  considerable  time  no  change  took  place  ;  but  one  cold  win- 
ter day,  their  faithful  nurse  left  her  younger  charge  sitting  quiet- 
ly by  the  parlor  fire,  and  had  not  been  gone  many  minutes  before 
she  was  recalled  by  sudden  screams,  and  found  the  poor  maniac  en- 
veloped in  flames.  It  was  supposed  that  she  had  held  her  cambric 
handkerchief  to  air  within  the  fireguard,  and  had  thus  ignited 
her  apron  and  other  parts  of  her  dress.  The  old  servant,  with  a 
true  woman's  courage,  caught  her  in  her  arms,  and  was  so  fear- 
fully burnt  in  the  vain  endeavor  to  extinguish  the  flames,  that 
she  expired  even  before  her  mistress,  who  lingered  many  days  in 
dreadful  agony,  but  without  any  return  of  recollection.  The 
surviving  sister,  happily  unconscious  of  the  catastrophe,  died  at 
last  of  mere  old  age.  This  tragedy  occurred  not  many  years 
after  the  death  of  Cowper. 

THE  CASTAWAY. 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky ; 

The  Atlantic  billows  roared, 
When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I 

Waslied  headlong  from  on  board, 
Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 
His  floating  home  forever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast 

Than  he  with  whom  ho  went, 
Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  cfiast 

With  warmer  wishes  sent. 
He  loved  them  both,  but  both  in  vain, 
Nor  him  beheld  nor  her  again. 

Not  long  beneath  tlie  whelming  brine 

Expert  to  swim  he  lay ; 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away  ; 


438  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Ele  wagod  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 
Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted :  nor  his  friends  had  failed 
To  check  the  vessel's  course, 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevailed 
Tiiat,  pitiless  perforce, 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind 

And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succor  yet  they  could  afford 
And  such  as  storms  allow 

The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord, 
Delayed  not  to  bestow. 

But  he,  they  knew,  nor  ship  nor  shore 

Whate'er  they  gave  should  visit  more. 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seemed,  could  he 
Their  haste  himself  condemn, 

Aware  that  flight  in  such  a  sea 
Alone  could  rescue  them ; 

Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 

Deserted  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

He  long  survives  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean  self-upheld : 
And  so  long  he  with  unspent  power 

His  destiny  repelled ; 
And  ever  as  the  minutes  flew 
Entreated  help,  or  cried  Adieu ! 

At  length  his  transient  respite  past 
His  comrades,  who  before 

Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast, 
Could  catch  the  sound  no  more. 

For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 

The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 

No  poet  wept  him;  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere 
That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age, 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear; 
And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 
Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 

I  therefore  purpose  not  or  dream. 

Descanting  on  his  fate. 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  439 

But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 

No  Toice  divine  the  storm  allayed. 

No  light  propitious  shone; 
When  snatched  from  all  eflPectual  aid 

We  perished  each  alone ; 
But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea 
And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 

Very  difierent,  yet  scarcely  less  melancholy,  was  the  destiny  of 
the  writer  of  the  following  sonnet,  called  by  Coleridge  the  finest 
in  our  language.  Most  remarkable  it  undoubtedly  is,  not  merely 
for  the  grandeur  of  the  thought,  but  for  the  beauty  of  the  execu- 
tion. In  reading  these  lines,  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  the 
author  (Blanco  White)  was  not  only  born  and  educated  in  Spain, 
but  wrote  English  very  imperfectly  until  he  was  turned  of  thirty. 

TO  NIGHT. 

Mysterious  Night !  when  our  first  parent  knew 

Thee  from  report  divine  and  heard  thy  name. 

Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  1 
Yet  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame 

Hesperus  with  the  host  of  Heaven  came 
And,  lo !  creation  widened  in  man's  view. 

Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  0  Sun  !  or  who  could  find 

While  fly  and  leaf  and  insect  stood  revealed 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind  ! 

Why  do  we  then  shun  death  with  anxious  strife  1 

If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life  1 

Most  different  again  is  the  following  quaint  sonnet,  taken  from 
a  series  of  sixty-three,  all  addressed  to  his  mistress,  and  called  by 
Drayton  "  Ideas."  The  turn  of  the  language  is  exceedingly  dra- 
matic. 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part ! 
Nay,  I  have  done ;  you  get  no  more  of  me ; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  witli  all  my  heart, 
That  thus  so  clearly  1  myself  can  free. 
Shake  hands  forever,  cancel  all  our  vows. 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again 
Be  it  not  seen  on  either  of  our  brows 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 


•i-J.0  U  ECO  L  LECTIONS    OF 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  love's  latest  birath, 
>Vhen  his  pulse  failing  Passion  speceliloss  lies, 
When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 
And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes; 
Now  if  tliou  would'st,  when  all  have  given  him  over 
From  death  to  life  tliou  might'st  him  yet  recover. 

The  concluding  poem  of  this  paper,  although  in  a  very  diflcr- 
eiit  style,  resembles  its  companions  in  the  one  grand  quality  of 
being  among  the  best,  if  not  the  very  best,  of  its  class,  at  the 
least  a  great  promise.  That  promise  has  been  amply  redeemed. 
A  singular  honor  befell  our  English  Apollo,  that  of  being  recited 
at  the  foot  of  the  statue  (then  still  in  the  Louvre),  by  no  less  a 
person  than  Mrs.  Siddons  herself  The  grace  and  harmony  of 
the  verse  are  worthy  of  such  a  distinction. 

THE  BELVIDERE  APOLLO. 

An  Oxford  Prize  Poem. 

Heard  ye  the  arrow  hurtle  in  the  sky  1 

Heard  j^e  the  dragon  monster's  deathful  cry  ? 

In  settled  majesty  of  fierce  disdain, 

Proud  of  his  might,  yet  scornful  of  the  slain, 

The  heavenly  archer  stands  ; — no  human  birth, 

No  perishable  denizen  of  earth ; 

Youth  blooms  immortal  in  his  beardless  face, 

A  god  in  strength  with  more  than  godlike  grace ; 

All,  all  divine, — no  struggling  muscle  glows, 

Through  heaving  vein  no  mantling  life-blood  flows. 

But  animate  with  deity  alone, 

In  deathless  glory  lives  the  breathing  stone. 

Bright  kindling  with  a  conqueror's  stern  delight, 
His  keen  eye  tracks  the  arrow's  fateful  flight; 
Burns  his  indignant  cheek  with  vengeful  fire, 
And  his  lip  quivers  with  insulting  ire  : 
Firm  fixed  his  tread,  yet  light,  as  when  on  high 
He  walks  the  impalpable  and  pathless  sky : 
The  rich  luxuriance  of  his  hair,  confined 
In  graceful  ringlets,  wantons  on  the  wind 
That  lifts  in  sport  his  mantle's  drooping  fold. 
Proud  to  display  that  form  of  faultless  mold. 

Mighty  Ephesian !  with  an  eagle's  flight 

Thy  proud  soul  mounted  through  the  fields  of  light, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  4-11 

Viewed  the  bright  concave  of  Heaven's  blest  abode 
And  the  cold  marble  leapt  to  life  a  God : 
Contagious  awe  through  breathless  myriads  ran 
And  nations  bowed  before  the  work  of  man. 
For  mild  he  seemed  as  in  Elysian  bowers 
Wasting  in  careless  ease  the  joyous  hours ; 
Haughty,  as  bards  have  sung,  with  princely  sway 
Curbing  the  tierce  flame-breathing  steeds  of  day ; 
Beauteous  as  vision  seen  in  dreamy  sleep 
By  holy  maid,  on  Delphi's  haunted  steep, 
Mid  the  dim  twilight  of  the  laurel  grove, 
Too  fair  to  worship,  too  divine  to  love. 

Yet  on  that  form  in  wild  delirious  trance 

With  more  than  reverence  gazed  the  Maid  of  France. 

Day  after  day  the  love-sick  dreamer  stood 

With  him  alone,  nor  thought  it  solitude  ; 

To  cherish  grief,  her  last  her  dearest  care, 

Her  one  fond  hope — to  perish  of  despair. 

Oft  as  the  shifting  light  her  sight  beguiled 

Blushing  she  shrunk,  and  thought  the  marble  smiled ; 

Oft  breathless  listening  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear — 

A  voice  of  music  melt  upon  her  ear. 

Slowly  she  waned,  and  cold  and  senseless  grown 

Closed  her  dim  eyes,  herself  benumbed  to  stone. 

Yet  love  in  death  a  sickly  strength  supplied, 

Once  more  she  gazed,  then  feebly  smiled  and  died. 

It  is  remarkable  that  Dean  Milmairs  prolessioiial  residences 
have  kept  close  to  the  great  river  of  England  :  his  first  curacy 
at  Eahng,  his  vicarage  at  Reading,  his  Oxford  professorship,  his 
stall  at  Westminster,  the  deanery  of  St.  Paul's.  Well  I  there 
are  other  ecclesiaistical  dwellings  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames: 
Rochester,  Fulham,  Lambeth  ;  who  knows  !  One  thing  is  quite 
certain,  go  where  he  may,  he  will  find  respect  and  uihiiiralion, 
and  leave  behind  him  admiration  and  regret. 


442  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 


XXXIV. 

AUTHORS  ASSOCIATED  WITH  PLACES. 


W.  C.  BENNETT. 


Fifty  years  ago,  our  Berkshire  valleys  abounded  in  old  Catho- 
lic houses,  to  which  tradition  usually  assigned  subterranean  com- 
munication with  neighboring  nunneries,  in  the  case  of  abbeys  or 
priories,  of  which,  so  far  as  I  know,  none  hath  ever  come  to 
light  ;  or,  if  the  mansions  had  been  secular,  secret  hiding-places 
(or  priests  during  the  religious  persecution  (sad  words  to  join)  of 
ilie  seventeenth  century,  especially  during  the  times  that  pre- 
ceded and  followed  Guy  Fawkes's  unaccomplished  crime,  and 
the  frightful  delusion  known  by  the  name  of  the  Popish  Plot. 
That  tradition  was  right  enough  there,  and  that  the  oppressed 
Catholics  did  resort  to  eveiy  measure  permitted  to  their  weakness, 
for  the  purpose  of  concealing  the  priests  to  whom  and  to  their 
peculiar  rites  and  ceremonies  they  clung  as  human  nature  does 
cling  to  that  which  is  unrighteously  persecuted,  there  exists  no 
sort  of  doubt. — In  an  old  house  which  my  own  father  took  down 
belonging  to  that  time,  a  small  chamber  was  discovei'ed,  to  which 
there  was  no  entrance  except  by  a  trap-door  cunningly  devised  in 
the  oak  flooring  of  a  large  bed-chamber ;  and  similar  places  of 
concealment,  sometimes  behind  a  panel,  sometimes  in  a  chim- 
ney, sometimes  in  the  roof,  have  come  to  light  in  other  manor- 
houses.  Now  they  are  nearly  all  leveled  with  the  ground,  these 
picturesque  dwellings  of  our  ancestors  ;  the  ancestral  trees  are 
Ibllowing  fast ;  and  we  who  loved  to  linger  round  the  gray  walls 
or  to  ramble  amid  the  mossy  trunks,  are  left  to  remember  and  to 
dejilore. 

One,  however,  still  remains  among  us,  thanks  to  the  good 
taste,  the  good  feeling,  and  perhaps  a  little  to  the  abundant 
wealth  of  the   present  proprietor ;  and  that   one   is  luckily  the 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  443 

most  interesting  of  all.  I  speak  of  Ufton  Court,  where  Arabella 
Fermor,  the  Belinda  of  "The  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  spent  her 
married  life  ;  where  she  dwelt  in  honor  and  repute,  receiving  in 
the  hereditary  mansion  of  the  Perkinses  the  wits  of  that  Augus- 
tan age, — Pope,  Steele,  Arbuthnot,  Bolingbroke  ;  where  she 
reared  four  goodly  sons,  became  a  widow,  and  was  ilnally  buried 
in  the  little  village  church.  There  her  monument  may  still  be 
seen  among  many  others  of  her  husband's  family,  and  her  name 
is  still  shown  with  laudable  pride  and  interest  in  that  most  lev- 
eling of  books,  in  whose  pages  riches  and  poverty,  beauty  and 
deformity,  stand  side  by  side — the  Parish  Register. 

To  this  old  house  I  rarely  fail  to  conduct  such  of  my  visitors 
as  happen  to  be  poets  ;  and  that  one  who  deserves  that  high 
title  accompanied  me  thither  not  very  long  ago,  will  be  inferred, 
I  think,  by  most  of  those  who  read  the  verses  that  conclude  this 
paper. 

The  day  was  one  of  those  between  late  May  and  early  June 
— the  May  of  the  old  style,  the  May  of  the  poets  ;  a  day  of 
breeze  and  of  sunshine.  Our  road  wound  through  close  woody 
lanes,  fragrant  with  the  pearly  flowers  of  the  hawthorn,  and  the 
opening  leaves  of  the  oak,  just  disclosing  their  silky  folds  of  yel- 
lowish-brown ;  then  across  the  village-green,  gay  with  hapi)y 
children  let  loose  from  school ;  then  through  the  little  brook 
where  the  road  dips  so  prettily  ;  then  beside  the  trickling  rill 
flowdng  down  the  hill  as  we  mounted  up,  until  at  last  wo 
emerged  from  the  shade  of  the  tall  trees  and  the  steep  banks  of 
the  narrow  lane,  into  the  full  flood  of  the  sunlight,  shining  in  all 
its  glory  upon  the  broad  table-land  of  Mortimer  Common. 

Never  did  I  see  that  beautiful  spot  so  beautiful,  the  fine  short 
turf,  exquisite  in  its  tender  verdure,  was,  except  in  occasional 
stripes  and  patches,  literally  encrusted  with  the  golden-blossomed 
gorse,  loading  the  air  with  its  heavy  odor  ;  bright  ponds  of  clear 
water  reflected  the  deep  blue  sky  ;  all  around  in  the  distance  lay 
cultivated  valleys,  woods,  churches,  villages,  towns  ;  and  in  the 
foreground  one  or  two  groups  of  old,  dark,  fanta,stic  iirs  gave 
something  of  a  wild  rugged  relief  to  a  landscape  almost  too  gor- 
geous. 

Traversing  the  common,  we  plunged  again  into  a  labyrinth  of 
lanes.  This  time,  however,  we  passed  between  (ir  plantations, 
mingled  with  young  birches  of  green  leaf  and  silver  bark,  with 


444  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

blossomed  hawthorn  and  waving  broom  ;  the  golden  gorse  creep- 
ing into  every  nook  and  corner,  and  seeming  to  reflect  the  yellow 
sunshine  as  the  water  had  reflected  the  blue  sky.  At  length  we 
arrived  at  the  gates  opening  upon  the  broad  approach  to  Ufton 
Court ;  an  approach  still  imposing,  although  the  noble  double 
avenue  that  once  adorned  it  has  long  fallen  under  the  wood- 
man's axe. 

The  situation  of  the  house  is  so  commanding  that  it  would  be 
difficult  to  deprive  it  of  its  statcliness  and  dignity.  It  stands  on 
the  brow  of  a  hill  which  slopes  abruptly  from  the  broad  terrace 
that  surrounds  two  sides  of  the  mansion,  and  overhangs  an  old- 
fashioned  garden  once  elaborately  laid  out,  down  into  a  deep  val- 
ley, which,  with  the  stream  that  creeps  along  the  enameled  bot- 
tom, forms  a  beautiful  bit  of  woodland  scenery — beautiful  and 
most  extensive ;  the  wood  climbing  up  to  the  top  of  the  opposite 
hill  and  spreading  on  eveiy  side  until  it  is  lost  in  the  distance. 

On  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  mansion  arc  some  magnificent  elms, 
splendid  both  in  size  and  form,  and  one  gigantic  broad-browed  oak 
— the  real  oak  of  the  English  forest — that  must  have  seen  many 
centuries. 

To  the  right  the  lawn  sweeps  down  a  steep  descent  to  a  chain 
of  fi.sh-ponds,  communicating  with  each  other,  as  was  usual  in 
large  country-houses  before  the  Reformation,  especially  when  so 
far  inland  ;  and  beyond  the  fish-ponds,  a  winding  road  leads 
through  the  wood  past  a  clear  well  overhung  with  trees,  that  al- 
most tempts  you  to  taste  the  waters  of  the  fountain,  until  in  the 
depth  of  the  valley  we  cross  a  one-arched  bridge,  and  either  fol- 
low the  road  up  the  long  acclivity  or  diverge  into  the  recesses  of 
the  woodland,  just  now  interspersed  with  piles  of  fagots  and  a 
few  fallen  trees,  and  purple  with  the  fragrant  bells  of  the  wild 
hyacinth.  By  the  roadside  we  found  a  rarer  flower,  the  crimson 
woodvetch ;  which,  to  our  astonishment,  we  again  discovered 
among  the  grasses  upon  the  terrace — of  old  as  free  from  all  vege- 
tation as  the  pavement  of  the  hall ;  doubtless  some  bird  had  car- 
ried the  seed  from  its  native  home  among  the  trees. 

The  house  itself  is  an  extensive  and  picturesque  erection,  cer- 
tainly not  later  than  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  probably  much  earlier. 
The  projecting  wings  with  their  gables  and  pinnacles,  are  borne 
out  by  a  large  and  curious  porch,  also  projecting,  with  two  wide 
seats  on  either  side,  so  that,  although  partly  open  below,  it  admits 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  445 

of  a  charming  lightsome  lady's  room,  with  three  windows,  built 
over  it.  Tall  clusters  of  twisted  chimneys  break  the  line  of  the 
roof  The  upper  stories,  with  their  quaintly  carved  beams  and 
corbels,  project  one  over  the  other,  and  are  terminated  by  little 
gables  and  pinnacles,  each  with  its  narrow  casement,  all  along 
the  front.  Tall  narrow  casements  indeed — the  small  panes  form- 
ing a  graceful  pattern  of  octagons  and  diamonds — prevail  on  every 
side  ;  and  the  door  of  heaviest  oak,  studded  with  prodigious  nails, 
would  almost  resist  an  ancient  battering-ram  or  a  modern  petard. 

On  entering  the  mansion,  we  found  cause  to  conjecture  that 
these  straitened  windows  and  this  iron-shod  door  were  perhaps 
but  needful  precautions  in  those  days  of  terror. 

The  two  lower  floors  ofi'er  nothing  to  view  beyond  the  black 
and  white  marble  pavement,  the  decorated  ceilings,  and  the 
carved  oaken  panels  proper  to  a  large  manorial  residence  of  the 
times  of  the  Tudors.  But,  on  ascending  the  broad  staircase  to 
the  third  story,  we  find  at  every  step  traces  of  the  shifts  to  which 
the  unhappy  intolerance  of  the  times  subjected  those  who  ad- 
hered firmly  to  the  proscribed  faith,  as  during  two  centuries,  and 
until  the  race  was  extinct,  was  the  proud  distinction  of  the  fainily 
of  Perkins. 

The  walls  are  evidently  pierced  throughout  by  a  concealed 
passage,  or  very  probably  passages  ;  leading,  it  is  presumed,  to  a 
shaft  in  the  cellar,  still  visible,  from  whence  another  passage  led 
under  the  terrace  into  the  garden,  and  through  that  to  the  woods, 
where,  doubtless,  places  of  refuge  or  means  of  escape  were  held 
ready  for  the  fugitives.  As  many  as  a  dozen  carefully-masked 
openings  into  dark  hiding-places,  varying  in  extent  and  size,  bave 
been  discovered  in  this  story  :  no  doubt  they  were  connected  one 
with  the  other,  although  the  clew  of  the  labyrinth  is  wanting. 
About  twenty  years  ago  a  larger  chamber,  entered  by  a  trap,  was 
also  accidentally  laid  open.  A  narrow  ladder  led  into  this  gloomy 
retreat,  and  the  only  things  found  there  were  most  significant — 
two  pctronels  and  a  small  crucifix  I 

A  shelving  apartment  in  the  roof  had  been  used  as  a  ('bapol  ; 
and  in  a  small  room  adjoining,  a  triangular  opening,  too  small 
to  conceal  a  man,  has  been  effected  with  more  than  ordinary 
care.  It  was  probably  used  to  conceal  the  vestments  and  the 
plate  used  in  the  mass.  The  little  door  is  so  thickly  lined  with 
wood,  that  the  most  skillful  sounder  of  panels  might  l<nock  forever 


446  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

without  detecting  the  slightest  hollow  sound,  and  it  fastens  itself 
when  closed  by  a  curious  and  complicated  wooden  bolt.  One 
would  fancy  that  Sir  Walter  must  have  seen  Ufton  Court  when 
he  wrote  "  Woodstock." 

Fifty  years  ago  a  Catholic  priest  was  the  sole  inhabitant  of 
this  interesting  mansion.  His  friend,  the  late  Mrs.  Lenoir, 
Christopher  Smart's  daughter,  whose  books,  when  taken  up,  one 
does  not  care  to  put  down  again,  wrote  some  verses  to  the  great 
oak.  Her  nieces,  whom  I  am  proud  to  call  my  friends,  possess 
many  reliques  of  that  lovely  Arabella  Fermor,  of  whom  Pope,  in 
the  charming  dedication  to  the  most  charming  of  his  poems,  said 
that  "  the  character  of  Belinda,  as  it  was  now  managed,  resem- 
bled her  in  nothing  but  beauty."  Among  these  reliques  are  her 
rosary  and  a  portrait,  taken  when  she  was  twelve  or  thirteen 
years  of  age.  The  face  is  most  interesting ;  a  high  broad  fore- 
head ;  dark  eyes,  richly  fringed  and  deeply  set ;  a  straight  nose, 
pouting  lips,  and  a  short  chin,  finely  rounded.  The  dress  is  dark 
and  graceful,  with  a  little  white  turned  back  about  the  neck  and 
thri  loose  sleeves.  Altogether  I  never  saw  a  more  charming  girl- 
ish portrait,  with  so  much  of  present  beauty,  and  so  true  a  prom- 
ise of  more,  of  that  order,  too,  high  and  intellectual,  which  great 
poets  love.  Her  last  surviving  son  died  childless  in  1769,  and  the 
estate  passed  into  another  family. 

Yet  another  interest  belongs  to  Ufton,  not  indeed  to  the  Court, 
but  to  the  Rectory.  Poor  Blanco  White  wrote  under  that  roof 
his  first  work,  the  well-known  "  Doblado's  Letters  ;"  and  the  late 
excellent  rector,  Mr.  Bishop,  in  common  with  the  no  less  excellent 
Lord  Holland  and  Archbishop  Whately,  remained  through  all 
that  tried  and  alienated  other  hearts,  his  fast  friend  to  his  last 
liour. 

Let  rae  now  speak  of  my  companion. 

Of  all  writers  the  one  who  has  best  understood,  best  painted, 
best  felt  infant  nature,  is  my  dear  and  valued  friend  Mr.  Bennett. 
We  see  at  once  that  it  is  not  only  a  charming  and  richly-gifted 
poet  who  is  describing  childish  beauty,  but  a  young  father  writing 
from  his  heart.  So  young,  indeed,  is  he  in  reality  and  appear- 
ance, that  he  was  forced  to  produce  a  shoemaker's  bill  for  certain 
little  blue  kid  slippers  before  he  could  convince  an  incredulous 
critic  (I  believe  poor  Ebenezer  Elliott,  the  Corn-Law  Rhymer) 
that  Babv  May  was  really  his  own  child,  and  not  an  imaginary 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  447 

personage  invented  for  the  nonce  ;  and  yet  Greenwich  can  tell 
how  much  this  young  ardent  mind,  aided  by  kindred  spirits,  has 
done  in  the  way  of  baths  and  wash-houses,  and  schools,  and  lec- 
tures, and  libraries,  and  mechanics'  institutes  to  further  the  great 
cause  of  progress,  mental  and  bodily.  So  well  do  strength  and 
tenderness  of  character  go  together,  and  so  fine  a  thing  is  the 
union  of  activity  with  thought. 

"Baby  May"  is  among  the  most  popular  of  Mr.  Bennett's 
lyrics,  and  among  the  most  original,  as  that  which  is  perfectly 
true  to  nature  can  hardly  fail  to  be. 

BABY  MAY. 

Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches — 
Lips  whose  velvet  scarlet  teaches 
Poppies  paleness — round  large  eyes 
Ever  great  with  new  surprise — 
Minutes  filled  with  shadeless  gladness — 
Minutes  just  as  brimmed  with  sadness — 
Happy  smiles  and  wailing  cries, 
Crows  and  laughs  and  tearful  eyes, 
Lights  and  shadows,  swifter  born 
Than  on  wind-swept  Autumn  corn, 
Ever  some  new  tiny  notion. 
Making  every  limb  all  motion, 
Catchings  up  of  legs  and  arms, 
Throwings  back  and  small  alarms. 
Clutching  fingers — straightening  jerks. 
Twining  feet  whose  each  toe  works, 
Kickings  up  and  straining  risings. 
Mother's  ever  new  surprisings, 
Hands  all  wants  and  looks  all  wonder 
At  all  things  tlie  heavens  under. 
Tiny  scorns  of  smiled  reprovings 
That  have  more  of  love  than  loviiigs, 
Mischiefs  done  with  such  a  winning 
Archness  that  we  prize  such  sinning, 
Breakings  dire  of  plates  and  glasses, 
Graspings  small  at  all  that  passes, 
PuUings  ofl'  of  all  that's  able 
To  be  caught  from  tray  or  table. 
Silences — small  meditations 
Deep  as  thoughts  of  cares  for  nation.s 
Breaking  into  wisest  speeches 
In  a  tongue  that  nothing  teaches, 
All  the  thoughts  of  whose  possessing 
Must  be  wooed  to  light  by  guessing. 


4-iS  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

SlmubiTS — such  sweet  aiigel-seeming!> 
Tliat  we'd  ever  have  such  dreatniiigs, 
Till  from  sk'ep  we  see  thee  breaking, 
Aud  we'd  always  have  thee  waking. 
Wealth  for  which  we  know  no  measuro, 
ricasure  high  above  all  pleasure, 
Gladness  brimming  over  gladness, 
Joy  in  care — delight  in  sadness, 
Loveliness  beyond  completeness, 
Sweetness  distancing  all  sweetness. 
Beauty  all  that  beauty  may  be. 
That's  May  Bennett — that's  my  baby. 

This  is  another  lyric  in  the  same  key. 

TO   A  LOCKET. 

Oh  casket  of  dear  fancies — 

Oh  little  case  of  gold — 
What  rarest  wealth  of  memories 

Thy  tiny  round  will  hold ; 
With  this  first  curl  of  baby's 

In  thy  small  charge  will  live 
All  thoughts  that  all  her  little  life 

To  memorj'  can  give. 

Oh  prize  its  silken  softness, 

Within  its  amber  round 
What  worlds  of  sweet  rememberings 

Will  still  by  us  be  found ; 
The  weak  shrill  cry  so  blessing 

The  curtained  room  of  pain, 
With  every  since-felt  feeling 

To  us  'twill  bring  again. 

'Twill  mind  us  of  her  lying 

In  rest  soft-pillowed  deep, 
While,  hands  the  candle  shading, 

We  stole  upon  her  sleep — 
Of  many  a  blessed  moment 

Her  little  rest  above 
We  hung  in  marveling  stillness — 

In  ecstasy  of  love. 

'Twill  mind  us,  radiant  sunshir"? 

For  all  our  sliadowed  days, 
Of  all  her  baby  wonderings, 

Of  all  her  little  ways, 
Of  all  her  tiny  shoutings, 

Of  all  her  starts  and  fears 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  449 

And  sudden  mirths  out-gleaming 
Through  eyes  yet  hung  with  tears. 

There's  not  a  care — a  watching — 

A  hope — a  laugh — a  fear 
Of  all  her  little  bringing 

But  we  shall  find  it  here; 
Then  tiny  golden  warder, 

Oh  safely  ever  hold 
This  glossy  silken  memory, 

This  little  curl  of  gold. 

Here  are  some  epitaphs  for  infants  of  great  sweetness  and  ten- 
derness. 

EPITAPHS   FOR  INFANTS. 

I. 

Here  the  gusts  of  wild  March  blo^v 
But  in  murmurs  faint  and  low; 
Ever  here,  when  Spring  is  green. 
Be  the  brightest  verdure  seen  — 
And  when  June's  in  field  and  glade, 
Here  be  ever  freshest  shade ; 
Here  hued  Autumn  latest  stay. 
Latest  call  the  flowers  away ; 
And  when  Winter's  shrilling  by, 
Hero  its  snows  the  warmest  lie  ; 
For  a  little  life  is  here. 
Hid  in  earth,  forever  dear. 
And  this  grassy  heap  above 
Sorrow  broods  and  weeping  love. 

XL 

On  this  little  grassy  mound 
Never  be  the  darnel  found ; 
Ne'er  be  venomcd  ncittle  seen 
On  this  little  heap  of  green; 
For  the  little  lost  one  here 
Was  too  sweet  for  aught  of  fear, 
Aught  of  harm  to  haibor  nigh 
This  green  H|)()t  where  she;  must  lie; 
So  be  naught  but  sweetness  found 
On  this  little  gra.ssy  mound. 

III. 

Here  in  gentle  pity.  Spring, 
Let  thy  sweetest  voices  sing; 


450  RECOLLECTIONS    OP 

Nightingale,  bo  here  thy  song 
Charmed  by  griof  to  linger  long — 
Here  the  thrush  with  longest  stay 
Pipe  its  speckled  song  to  day — 
And  the  blackbird  warble  shrill 
All  its  passion  latest  still ; 
Still  the  old  gray  tower  above 
Her  small  nest,  the  swallow  love, 
And  through  all  June's  honeyed  hours 
Booming  bees  hum  in  its  Howers, 
And  when  comes  the  eve's  cold  gray 
Murmuring  gnats  unresting  play 
Weave,  while  round  the  beetle's  fliglit 
Drones  across  the  shadowing  night; 
For  the  sweetness  dreaming  here 
Was  a  gladness  to  the  year, 
And  the  sad  months  all  should  bring 
Dirges  o'er  her  sleep  to  sing. 

IV. 

Haunter  of  the  opening  year, 
Ever  be  the  primrose  here ; 
Whitest  daisies  deck  the  spot, 
Pansies  and  forget-me-not, 
Fairest  things  that  earliest  fly. 
Sweetness  blooming  but  to  die  ; 
For  this  blossom,  o'er  whose  fall 
Sorrow  sighs,  was  fair  as  all. 
But,  alas,  as  frail  as  they, 
All  as  quickly  fled  away. 

These  four  stanzas,  on  a  subject  so  hackneyed  that  many  writers 
would  have  shrunk  from  attempting  it,  would  make  four  charm- 
ing pictures. 

THE  SEASONS. 

A  blue-eyed  child  that  sits  amid  the  noon, 
O'erhung  with  a  laburnum's  drooping  sprays, 

Singing  her  little  songs,  while  softly  round 
Along  the  g;rass  the  chequered  sunshine  plays. 

All  beauty  that  is  throned  in  womanhood 
Pacing  a  summer  garden's  fountaincd  walks. 

That  stoops  to  smooth  a  glossy  spaniel  down 
To  hide  her  flushing  cheek  from  one  who  talks. 

A  happy  mother  with  her  fair-faced  girls, 

In  whose  sweet  Spring  again  her  youth  she  sees, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  451 

With  shout  and  dance  and  laugh  and  bound  and  song 
Stripping  an  Autumn  orchard's  laden  trees. 

An  aged  woman  in  a  wintry  room, — 

Frost  on  the  pane,  without  the  whirling  snow- 
Reading  old  letters  of  her  far-off  youth, 
Of  sorrows  past  and  joys  of  long  ago. 

The  next  specimen  shows  one  of  Mr.  Bennett's  strongest  char- 
acteristics ;  his  sincere  sympathy  with  the  privations  of  the  work- 
ing classes,  especially  the  privations  that  shut  them  out  from 
natural  beauty. 

THE  SEMPSTRESS  TO  HER  MIGNONETTE. 

I  love  that  box  of  mignonette, 

Though  worthless  in  your  eyes, 
Above  your  choicest  hot-house  flowers 

My  mignonette  I  prize — 
Thank  heaven  not  yet  I've  learned  on  that 

A  money  worth  to  set — 
'Tis  priceless  as  the  thoughts  it  brings, 

My  box  of  mignonette. 

I  know  ray  own  sweet  mignonette 

Is  neither  strange  nor  rare. 
Your  garden  Saunters  burn  with  hues 

That  it  may  never  wear; 
Yet  on  your  garden's  rarest  blooms 

No  eyes  were  ever  set 
With  more  delight  than  mine  on  yours, 

My  box  of  mignonette. 

Why  do  I  prize  my  mignonette 

That  lights  my  window  there  7 
It  adds  a  jdeasure  to  deliglit — 

It  steals  a  weight  from  care — 
What  happy  daylight  dreams  it  brings — 

Can  I  not  half  forget 
My  long,  long  hours  of  weary  work 

With  you,  my  mignonette. 

It  tells  of  May,  my  mignonette, 

And  as  I  see  it  l)loom 
I  think  the  green  ]>riglit  pleasant  Spring 

Comes  freshly  through  my  room ; 
Our  narrow  court  is  dark  and  close, 

Yet  when  my  cyt'S  you  met 


452  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Wide  flohls  lay  stretching  from  my  sight, 
My  box  of  migiionotto. 

What  talks  it  of,  my  mignonette, 

To  me  it  babbles  still 
Of  woodland  banks  of  primroses, 

Of  heath  and  breezy  hill — 
Through  country  lanes  and  daisied  fields — 

Through  paths  with  morning  wet 
Again  I  trip  as  when  a  girl 

Through  you,  my  mignonette. 

For  this  I  love  my  mignonette, 

My  window  garden  small 
That  country  thoughts  and  scents  and  sounds 

Around  me  loves  to  call — 
For  this  though  low  in  rich  men's  thoughts 

Your  worth  and  love  be  set, 
I  bless  you,  pleasure  of  the  poor, 

My  own  sweet  mignonette. 

I  add  "  Ariadne"   to  show  how   Mr.   Bennett  can  strike  the 
classic  lyre. 

ARIADNE. 

Morn  rose  on  Naxos, — golden  dewy  morn, 
Climbing  its  eastern  cliffs  with  gleaming  light. 
Purpling  each  inland  peak  and  dusky  gorge 
Of  the  gray  distance, — morn,  on  lowland  slopes. 
Of  olive-ground  and  vines  and  yellowing  corn. 
Orchard  and  flowery  pasture,  white  with  kine. 
On  forest — hillside  cot,  and  rounding  sea, 
And  the  still  tent  of  Theseus  by  the  shore. 

Morn  rose  on  Naxos — chill  and  freshening  morn. 
Nor  yet  the  unbreathing  air  a  twitter  heard 
From  eave  or  bough, — nor  yet  a  blue  smoke  rose 
From  glade  or  misty  vale,  or  far-off  town  ; 
One  only  sign  of  life,  a  dusky  sail. 
Stole  dark  afar  across  the  distant  sea 
Flying;  all  else  unmoved  in  stillness  lay 
Beneath  the  silence  of  the  brightening  heavens, 
Nor  sound  was  heard  to  break  the  slumbrous  calm, 
Save  the  soft  lapse  of  waves  along  the  strand. 

A  white  form  from  the  tent, — a  glance, — a  cry. 

Where  art  thou,  Theseus  ? — Theseus  !  Theseus  !  where  ? 

Why  hast  thou  stolen  thus  with  earliest  dawn. 

Forth  from  thy  couch — forth  from  these  faithless  arras. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  453 

That  even  in  slumber  should  have  clasped  thee  still ! 

Truant !  ah  me  !  and  hast  thou  learnt  to  fly 

So  early  from  thy  Ariadne's  love  ! 

Where  art  thoul     Is  it  well  to  fright  me  thus, — 

To  scare  me  for  a  moment  with  the  dread 

Of  one  abandoned !     Art  thou  in  the  woods 

With  all  that  could  have  told  me  where  thou  art ! 

Cruel !  and  couldst  tliou  not  have  left  me  one, 

Ere  this  to  have  laughed  away  my  idle  fears ! 

He  could  have  told  thee  all — the  start — the  shriek — 

The  pallid  face,  with  which  I  found  thee  gone, 

And  furnished  laughter  for  thy  glad  return  ; 

But  thus  !  to  leave  me,  cruel !   thus  alone  ! 

There  is  no  sound  of  horns  among  the  hills, 

No  shouts  that  tell  they  track  or  bay  the  boar. 

0  fearful  stillness  !     0  that  one  would  speak ! 

0  would  that  I  were  fronting  wolf  or  pard 

But  by  thy  side  this  moment !  so  strange  fear 

Possesses  me,  0  love !  apart  from  thee ; 

The  galley  1  gone  1     Ye  Gods  !  it  is  not  gone  1 

Here,  by  this  rock  it  lay  but  yesternight  1 

Gone  1  through  this  track  its  keel  slid  down  the  shore ; 

And  I  slept  calmly  as  it  cleft  the  sea  1 

Gone  1  gone  1  where  gone  1 — that  sail !  'tis  his  !  'tis  his  ! 

Return,  0  Theseus  !  Theseus  !  love  !  return  ! 

Thou  wilt  return  1     Thou  dost  but  try  my  love  1 

Thou  wilt  return  to  make  my  foolish  fears 

Thy  jest  1     Return,  and  I  will  laugh  with  thee  ! 

Return  !  return  !  and  canst  thou  hear  my  shrieks. 

Nor  heed  my  cry !     And  wouldst  thou  have  me  weep. 

Weep !   I  that  wept — while  with  wild  fear  the  while 

Thou  slew'st  the  abhorred  monster !     If  it  be 

Thou  takcst  pleasure  in  these  bitter  tears. 

Come  back,  and  I  will  weep  myself  away — 

A  streaming  Niobe — to  win  thy  smiles ! 

0  stony  heart  !  why  wilt  thou  wring  me  thus  ! 

0  heart  more  cold  unto  my  slirilliiig  cries 

Than  these  wild  hills  that  wail  to  thee,  return, 

Than  all  these  island  rocks  that  shriek,  return. 

Come  back! — Thou  seest  me  rend  this  blinding  liair; 

Hast  thou  not  sworn  each  tress  tliou  didst  so  prize. 

That  sight  of  homo,  and  thy  gray  father's  face, 

Were  less  a  joy  to  thee,  and  liglitlier  held  ! 

Thy  sail !  thy  sail !     0  <1<>  my  watery  eyes 

Take  part  with  thee,  so  loved !  to  crush  me  down  ! 

Gone!  gone!  and  wilt  thou — wilt  thou  not  return? 

Heartless,  uufearing  the  just  Gbds,  wilt  thou, 

Theseus  !  my  lord  !  my  love  !  desert  me  tlius  ! 

Thus  leave  me,  stranger  in  this  strange  wild  land, 


454  KECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

Friendless,  afar  from  all  I  left  for  theo, 
Crete,  my  old  home,  and  my  ancestral  lialls, 
My  father's  love,  and  the  remembered  haunts 
Of  ehildhood,— all  that  knew  me— all  I  knew— 
All— all — woe  !  woe  !  that  I  shall  know  no  more. 
Why  didst  thou  lure  me,  craftiest,  from  my  home  1 
There  if,  thy  love  grown  cold,  thou  thus  hadst  fled, 
I  had  found  comfort  in  fond  words  and  smiles 
Familiar,  and  the  pity  of  my  kin, 
Tears  wept  with  mine — tears  wept  by  loving  eyes, 
That  had  washed  out  thy  traces  from  my  heart, 
Perchance,  in  years,  had  given  me  back  to  joy. 
0  that  thy  steps  had  never  trodden  Crete  ! 
0  that  these  ej-es  had  never  on  thee  fed ! 

0  that,  weak  heart !  I  ne'er  had  looked  my  love, 
Or,  looking,  thou  hadst  thrust  it  back  with  hate  ! 
Did  I  not  save  thee  1    11  was  it  for  this, 
De.spite  Crete's  hate — despite  my  father's  wrath. 
Perchance  to  slay  me,  that  I  ventured  all 

For  thee — for  thee — forgetting  all  for  thee  ! 
Thou  know'st  it  all, — who  knows  it  if  not  thou, 
Save  the  just  Gods — the  Gods  who  hear  my  cry, 
And  mutter  vengeance  o'er  thy  flying  head. 
Forsworn!     And,  lo !  on  thy  accursed  track 
Hush  the  dread  furies ;  lo !  afar  I  see 
The  hoary  jEgeus,  watching  for  his  son. 
His  son  that  nears  him  still  with  hastening  oars, 
Unknown,  that  nears  him  but  to  dash  him  down, 
Moaning,  to  darkness  and  the  dreadful  shades. 
The  while,  tliy  grief  wails  after  him  in  vain  ; 
And,  lo,  again  the  good  Gods  glad  my  sight 
"With  vengeance;  blood  again,  thy  blood,  I  see 
Streaming  ; — who  bids  Hippolytus  depart 
But  thou — thou,  sword  of  lustful  Phiedra's  hate 
Against  thy  boy — thy  son — thy  fair-haired  boy  ; 

1  see  the  ivory  chariot  whirl  him  on — 
The  maddened  horses  down  the  rocky  way 
Dashing — the  roaring  monster  in  their  path ; 
And  plates  and  ivory  splinters  of  the  car, 

And  blood  and  limbs,  sprung  from  thee,  crushed  and  torn, 

Poseidon  scatters  down  the  shrieking  shores  ; 

And  thou  too  late — too  late,  bewail'st,  in  vain, 

Thy  blindness  and  thy  hapless  darling's  fate. 

And  think'st  of  me,  abandoned,  and  my  woe ; 

Thou  who  didst  show  no  pity,  to  the  Gods 

Shrieking  for  pity,  that  my  vengeful  cries 

Drag  thee  not  down  unto  the  nether  gloom, 

To  endless  tortures  and  undying  woe. 

Dread  Gods  !  I  know  these  things  shall  surely  be  ! 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  455 

But  other,  wilder  whispers  throng  my  ears, 

And  in  mj^  thought  a  fountain  of  s\veet  hope 

Mingles  its  gladness  with  my  lorn  despair. 

Lo  !  wild  flushed  faces  reel  before  mine  eyes, 

And  furious  revels,  dances,  and  fierce  glee, 

Are  round  me, — tossing  arms  and  leaping  forms. 

Skin-clad  and  horny-hoofed,  and  hands  that  clash 

Shrill  cymbals,  and  the  stormy  joy  of  flutes 

And  horns,  and  blare  of  trumpets,  and  all  hues 

Of  Iris'  watery  bow,  on  bounding  nymphs. 

Vine-crowned  and  thyrsus-sceptred,  and  one  form, 

God  of  the  roaring  triumph,  on  a  car 

Golden  and  jewel-lustred,  carved  and  bossed, 

As  by  Hephaestus,  shouting,  rolls  along, 

Jocund  and  panther-drawn,  and  through  the  sun, 

Down,  through  the  glaring  splendor,  with  wild  bound, 

Leaps,  as  he  nears  me,  and  a  mighty  cup, 

Dripping  with  odorous  nectar,  to  my  lips 

Is  raised,  and  mad  sweet  mirth — frenzy  divine 

Is  in  my  veins — hot  love  burns  through  mine  eyes, 

And  o'er  the  roar  and  rout  I  roll  along, 

Throned  by  the  God,  and  lifted  by  his  love 

Unto  forgetfulness  of  mortal  pains, 

Up  to  the  prayers  and  praise  and  awe  of  earth. 


Much  may  be  expected  from  a  yovmg  poet  who  has  already 
done  so  well  ;  all  the  more  that  he  is  a  man  of  business,  and  that 
literature  is  with  him  a  staff  and  not  a  crutch. 

To  return  a  moment  to  Ufton  Court. 

I  am  indebted  to  my  admirable  friend  Mrs.  Hughes  for  the  ac- 
count of  another  hiding-place,  in  which  the  interest  is  insured  by 
that  charm  of  charms — an  unsolved  and  insoluble  mystery. 

On  some  alterations  being  projected  in  a  large  mansion  in  Scot- 
land, belonging  to  the  late  Sir  George  Warrender,  the  architect, 
after  examining,  and,  so  to  say,  studying  the  house,  declared  that 
there  was  a  space  in  the  center  for  which  there  was  no  account- 
ing, and  that  there  must  certainly  be  a  concealed  chamber. 
Neither  master  nor  servant  had  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing,  and 
the  assertion  was  treated  with  some  scorn.  The  architect,  how- 
ever, persisted,  and  at  last  proved  by  the  sure  test  of  measurement 
and  by  a  comparison  with  the  rooms  in  an  upper  story,  that  the 
space  he  had  spoken  of  did  exist,  and  as  no  entrance  of  any  sort 
could  be  discovered  from  the  surrounding  chambers,  it  was  re- 
solved to  make  an  incision  in  the  wall.      The  experiment  proved 


456  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

tlio  arolutcct  to  have  beiMi  correct  in  his  calculations.  A  large 
ami  lofty  apartment  was  disclosed,  riclily  and  completely  furnished 
as  a  bed-chamber  ;  a  large  four-post  bed,  spread  with  blankets, 
counterpanes,  and  the  finest  sheets,  was  prepared  for  instant  oc- 
cupation. The  very  wax-lights  in  the  candlesticks  stood  ready 
for  lighting.  The  room  was  heavily  hung  and  carpeted  as  if  to 
deaden  sound,  and  was,  of  course,  perfectly  dark.  No  token  was 
found  to  indicate  the  intended  occupant,  for  it  did  not  appear  to 
have  been  used,  and  the  general  conjecture  was,  that  the  refuge 
had  been  prepared  for  some  unfortunate  Jacobite  in  the  '15,  who 
had  either  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Government  or  had  escaped 
from  the  kingdom  ;  while  the  few  persons  to  whom  the  secret 
had  necessarily  been  intrusted  had  died  ofT  without  taking  any 
one  into  their  confidence  ;  a  discretion  and  fidelity  which  cor- 
respond with  many  known  traits  of  Scottish  character  in  both 
rebellions,  and  were  eminently  displayed  during  the  escape  of 
Charles  Edward. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  157 


XXXV. 

IRISH    AUTHORS. 

GERALD    GRIFFIN. 

Biography,  although  to  me  the  most  delightful  reading  in  the 
world,  is  too  frequently  synonymous  with  tragedy,  especially  the 
biography  of  poets.  What  else  are  the  last  two  volumes  of 
"  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott  ?"  What  else,  all  the  more  for  its 
wild  and  whirling  gayety,  the  entire  "  Life  of  Byron  ?"  But  the 
book  that,  above  any  other,  speaks  to  me  of  the  trials,  the  suf- 
ferings, the  broken  heart  of  a  man  of  genius,  is  that  "  Life  of 
Gerald  Griffin,"  written  by  a  brother  worthy  of  him,  which  pre- 
cedes the  only  edition  of  his  collected  works.  The  author  of 
"  The  Collegians"  is  so  little  known  in  England,  that  I  may  be 
pardoned  for  sketching  the  few  events  of  an  existence  marked 
only  by  high  aims  and  bitter  disappointments.  His  parents  were 
poor  Irish  gentry,  with  taste  and  cultivation  unusual  in  their  class 
and  country  ;  and  all  of  his  early  youth  that  he  could  steal  from 
Greek  and  Latin  was  spent  in  the  far  dearer  and  more  absorbing 
occupation  of  sketching  secretly  drama  after  drama,  or  in  dream- 
ing sweet  dreams  of  triumphs  to  come,  as  he  lay  floating  in  his 
little  boat  on  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Shannon,  which  flowed  past 
his  happy  home.  When  he  was  about  seventeen  the  elder 
branches  of  his  family  emigrated  to  Canada,  leaving  him  to  the 
care  of  his  brother,  Dr.  Griflin,  wiio  removed  to  Ailare,  near 
Limerick.  It  was  proposed  that  he  also  should  follow  the  medical 
profession.  But  this  destination  was  little  suited  to  the  cherished 
visions  of  the  young  poet  ;  and  about  two  years  after  he  set  ofi' 
gayly  for  London  with  "  Gisij>pu8,"  and  I  know  not  how  many 
other  plays  in  his  pocket,  for  his  only  resource,  and  his  country- 
man John  Banim  for  his  only  friend.  He  was  not  yet  twenty, 
poor  boy  I  had  hardly  left  his  father's  roof,  and   he  set  out  for 

U 


458  R  K  COL  L  K  C  T  1  O  N  S    O  F 

London  lull  of  spirits  and  of  hope  to  make  his  fortune  by  the 
stage.  IS'oir  we  all  know  what  "  Gisippus"  is — the  story  of  a 
groat  benefit,  a  foul  ingratitude,  suiieriiig  heaped  upon  sullering, 
wrong  ugon  wrong,  avenged  in  the  last  scene  by  such  a  pardon, 
such  a  reconciliation  as  would  draw  tears  from  the  stoniest  heart 
that  ever  sat  in  a  theater.  We  all  know  the  beauty  of  "  Gisip- 
pus'' now  ;  for  after  the  author's  death  that  very  play,  in  Mr. 
Macready's  hands,  achieved  perhaps  one  of  the  purest  successes 
of  the  modern  drama.  But  during  Gerald  Griffin's  life  it  pro- 
duced nothing  but  mortifications  innumerable  and  unspeakable. 
The  play  and  the  poet  were  tossed  unread  and  unheard  from 
actor  to  actor,  from  manager  to  manager,  until  hope  fainted  with- 
in him,  and  the  theater  was  abandoned  at  once  and  forever. 

During  this  long  agony  he  quarreled  in  some  moment  of  sus- 
ceptibility, long  repented  and  speedily  atoned,  with  his  true  friend 
Banim  ;  and  went  about  the  huge  wilderness,  London,  an  un- 
known, solitary  lad,  seeking  employment  among  the  booksellers, 
fighting  the  battle  of  unfriended  and  imrecognized  talent  as 
bravely  as  ever  it  was  fought,  and  was  all  but  starved  in  the 
contest,  as  Otway  and  Chatterton  had  been  before  him.  The 
production  of  "  The  Collegians,"  the  very  best  tale  of  what  has 
been  termed  "  The  Irish  School,"  averted  this  catastrophe.  But 
even  after  "  The  Collegians,"  which  O'Connell  delighted  in  call- 
ing his  favorite  novel,  the  struggle,  often  a  losing  struggle,  seems 
to  have  continued.  Bitter  sufierings  ooze  out.  He  speaks  of 
himself  in  some  most  afTecting  stanzas,  as  doomed  to  die  while 
his  powers  are  still  unacknowledged  : 

'•  With  tliis  feeling  upon  me,  all  foveiish  and  glowing, 
I  ra.shed  up  the  rugged  way  panting  to  feme, 
I  snatched  at  my  laurels  while  yet  they  were  growing, 
And  won  for  my  guerdon  the  half  of  a  name." 

For  the  next  dozen  years  he  appears  to  have  lived  an  anxious 
and  unsatisfactory  life,  partly  in  arduous  and  obscure  literary 
drudgery,  working  for  different  booksellers  at  the  several  series  of 
"  The  Munster  Festivals,"  "The  Duke  of  Monmouth,"  and  other 
tales,  partly  sharing  the  happier  retirement  of  his  affectionate 
relations  in  the  county  Limerick.  But  in  London,  in  spite  of  his 
fine  genius,  his  high  and  sterling  qualities,  he  seems  to  have  re- 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  459 

mained  friendless  and  unknown.     Partly  perhaps  this  was  the 
fault  of  a  shy  and  sensitive  temperament.     He  says  himself: 

"  I  have  a  heart.     Fd  live 

And  die  for  him  whose  Avorth  I  knew; 
But  could  not  clasp  his  hand,  and  give 

My  full  heart  forth  as  talkers  do. 
And  they  who  loved  me,  the  kind  few, 

Believed  me  changed  in  heart  and  tone 
And  left  me  while  it  burned  as  true, 

To  live  alone,  to  live  alone." 


And  so  he  labored  on  ;  working  for  uncertain  remuneration 
with  diminished  hope,  and  with  (as  we  are  sufl'ered  to  perceive) 
the  shadow  of  an  unfortunate  attachment  dimming  the  faint  sun- 
shine that  was  left,  until  little  by  little  his  courage  seems  to  have 
failed  him,  and  in  the  year  1838,  while  only  thirty-four  years  of 
age,  he  resolved  to  join  the  Society  of  Christian  Brethren  at  Cork. 
It  is  an  institution  half  monastic,  half  educational,  consisting  no 
doubt  of  pious  and  excellent  persons  ;  and  fitted  to  do  good  service 
among  the  peasantry  of  Ireland.  But  I  can  not  help  doubting 
whether  the  companionship  or  the  occupation  were  exactly  that 
best  suited  to  Gerald  Griffin.  One  of  the  old  Benedictine  abbeys, 
where  the  consolations  of  religion  were  blended  with  the  pursuits 
of  learning,  where  the  richly  adorned  chapel  adjoined  the  richly- 
stored  library,  M'ould  have  done  better.  At  Cork,  his  employ- 
ment was  to  teach  young  children  their  letters  ;  and  one  day  a 
mendicant  from  his  own  county  craving  relief,  and  he  moneyless, 
according  to  the  rule  of  the  order,  proposing  to  bestow  his  alms  in 
the  form  of  a  little  gold  seal,  the  only  trinket  he  had  retained, 
the  permission  to  do  so  was  refused.  After  this  it  is  no  surprise 
to  find  that  the  feverish  disorders,  to  which  he  was  constitution- 
ally subject,  recurred  more  frequently.  In  the  year  1810,  his 
kind  brother,  Dr.  Griffin,  was  sent  for  to  attend  his  sick-bed,  and 
arrived  just  in  time  to  receive  his  last  sigh.  Then  came  the  tri- 
umphant representation  of  "  Gisippus,"  the  only  one  of  his  plays 
that  he  had  not  destroyed  on  entering  the  Christian  Brethren,  just 
to  show  what  a  dramatist  had  been  let  die. 

His  lyric  sseem  to  me  almo.st  unrivaled  for  the  truth,  purity 
and  tenderness  of  the  sentiment.  This  is  high  praise,  but  I  sub- 
join a  few  specimens  which  I  think  will  V)ear  it  out  : 


460  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Gilli  ma  chrec, 

Sit  down  by  me, 
We  now  arc  joined  and  ne'er  shall  sever, 

This  hearth's  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  forever. 

When  I  was  poor 

Your  father's  door 
Was  closed  against  your  constant  lover, 

AVith  care  and  pain 

I  tried  in  vain 
My  fortunes  to  recover  ; 
I  said,  To  other  lands  I'll  roam 

Where  Fate  may  smile  on  me,  love ! 
I  said.  Farewell,  my  own  old  home ! 
And  I  said  fiirewell  to  thee,  love! 

Sing  Gilli  ma  chree,  &c. 

I  might  have  said, 

My  mountain  maid, 
Come  live  with  me,  your  own  true  lover ; 

I  know  a  spot, 

A  silent  cot. 
Your  friends  can  ne'er  discover. 
Where  gentlj-  flows  the  waveless  tide 

By  one  small  garden  only, 
Where  the  heron  waves  his  wings  so  wide, 
And  the  linnet  sings  so  lonely. 

Sing  Gilli  ma  chree,  &c. 

I  might  have  said, 

My  mountain  maid, 
A  father's  right  was  never  given 

True  hearts  to  curse 

With  tyrant  force 
That  have  been  blest  in  Heaven ! 
But  then  I  said.  In  after-years, 

When  thoughts  of  home  shall  find  her, 
My  love  may  mourn  with  secret  tears 
Her  friends  thus  left  behind  her. 

Sing  Gilli  ma  chree,  &c. 

Oh,  no,  I  said. 

My  own  dear  maid. 
For  me,  though  all  forlorn  forever 

That  heart  of  thine 

Shall  ne'er  repine 
O'er  slighted  duty,  never  ! 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  461 

From  home  and  thee  though  wandering  far 

A  dreary  fate  be  mine,  love, 
I'd  rather  live  in  endless  war 

Than  buy  my  peace  with  thine,  love  ! 
Sing  Gilli  ma  chree,  &c. 

Far,  far  away, 

By  night  and  day 
I  toiled  to  win  a  golden  treasure ; 

And  golden  gains 
4  Repaid  my  pains 
In  fair  and  shining  measure. 
I  sought  again  my  native  land. 

Thy  father  welcomed  me,  love  ; 
I  poured  my  gold  into  his  hand. 
And  my  guerdon  found  in  thee,  love  ! 

Sing  Gilli  ma  chree. 

Sit  down  by  me, 
We  now  are  joined,  and  ne'er  shall  sever ; 

This  hearth's  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  forever. 


II. 


The  Mie-na-mallah*  now  is  past, 
0  wirra-sthru !     0  wirra-sthru  ! 
And  I  must  leave  my  home  at  last, 

0  wirra-sthru !     0  wirra-sthru ! 
I  look  into  my  father's  eyes, 
I  hear  my  mother's  parting  sighs, — 
Ah  !   fool  to  pine  for  other  ties ! 
0  wirra-sthru  !     0  wirra-sthru  ! 

This  evening  they  must  sit  alone, 
0  wirra-sthru  !     0  wirra-sthru ! 
They'll  talk  of  mo  when  I  am  gone, 

0  wirra-sthru  !     0  wirra-sthru  ! 
Who  now  will  cheer  my  lonely  siro 
When  toil  and  care  Jiis  heart  shall  tire  1 
My  chair  is  empty  by  the  fire  ; 
0  wirra-sthru  !     0  wirra-sthru  ! 

How  sunny  looks  my  pleasant  home, 
0  win-a-sthru  !     0  wirra-sthru  ! 

Those  flowers  for  me  shall  never  Iduoni, 
0  wirra-sthru  !     0  wirra-sthru  ! 


*  The  Iloncvmoon. 


462  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

I  seek  new  ftiends,  and  I  am  told 
That  they  are  rich  in  lands  and  goM. 
Ah !   will  they  lovo  mc  like  the  old  I 
0  wirra-sthru  !     0  wirra-sthni ! 

Farewell,  dear  friends  !    we  meet  no  more  ! 

0  wirra-sthru  !     0  wirra-sthru  ! 
My  husband's  horse  is  at  the  door ! 

0  wirra-sthru  !     0  wirra-sthru  ! 
Ah,  love  !   ah,  love !   be  kind  to  me, 
For  by  this  breaking  heart  you  see 
IIow  dearly  I  have  purchased  thee  ! 

0  wirra-sthru  !    0  wirra-sthru  ! 

ni. 

Old  times  !   old  times  !   the  gay  old  times, 

Wlien  I  was  young  and  free, 
And  heard  the  merry  Easter  chimes 

Under  the  sally  tree. 
My  Sunday  palm  beside  me  placed, 

My  cross  upon  my  hand, 
A  heart  at  rest  within  my  breast, 

And  sunshine  on  the  land ! 

Old  times  !   old  times ! 

It  is  not  that  my  fortunes  flee, 

Nor  that  my  cheek  is  pale, 
I  mourn  whene'er  I  think  of  thee. 

My  darling  native  vale. 
A  wiser  head  I  have,  I  know. 

Than  when  I  loitered  there. 
But  in  my  wisdom  there  is  woe, 

And  in  my  knowledge  care. 

Old  times  !   old  times  ! 

I've  lived  to  know  my  share  of  joy, 

To  feel  my  share  of  pain, 
To  learn  that  friendship's  self  can  cloy, 

To  love  and  love  in  vain. 
To  feel  a  pang  and  wear  a  smile. 

To  tire  of  other  climes, 
To  like  my  own  unhappy  isle. 

And  sing  the  gay  old  times. 

Old  times !  old  times  ! 

And  sure  the  land  is  nothing  changed, 

The  birds  are  singing  still. 
The  flowers  are  springing  where  we  ranged, 

There's  sunshine  on  the  hill; 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  463 

The  sally,  waving  o'er  my  head, 

Still  sweetly  shades  my  frame ; 
But,  ah,  those  happy  days  are  fled, 

And  I  am  not  tlie  same. 

Old  times !  old  times ! 

Oh,  come  again,  ye  merry  times, 

Sweet,  sunny,  fresh  and  calm, 
And  let  me  hear  those  Easter  chimes, 

And  wear  my  Sunday  palm. 
If  I  could  crj-  away  mine  eyes. 

My  tears  would  flow  in  vain ; 
If  I  could  waste  my  heart  in  sighs 

They'll  never  come  again. 

A  personal  feeling  probably  dictated  the  following  fine  stanzas  ; 
one  of  Gerald  Griffin's  sisters  having  joined  the  Sisters  of  Charity 
in  Dublin  : 


She  once  was  a  lady  of  honor  and  wealth, 
Bright  glowed  on  her  features  the  roses  of  health. 
Her  vesture  was  blended  of  silk  and  of  gold. 
And  her  motion  shook  perfume  from  every  fold; 
Joy  reveled  around  her,  love  shone  at  her  side, 
And  gay  was  her  smile  as  the  glance  of  a  bride. 
And  light  was  her  step  in  the  mirth-soundiiig  hall. 
When  she  heard  of  the  daughters  of  Vincent  de  Paul. 

She  felt  in  her  spirit  the  summons  of  grace. 
That  called  her  to  live  for  the  suffering  race. 
And  heedless  of  pleasure,  of  comfort,  of  home. 
Rose  quickly,  like  Mary,  and  answered  "  I  come !" 
She  put  from  her  person  the  trapi)ings  of  pride. 
And  passed  from  her  home  with  the  joy  of  a  bride, 
Nor  wept  at  the  threshold  as  onward  she  moved. 
For  her  heart  was  on  fire  in  the  cause  that  she  loved. 

Lost  ever  to  fashion,  to  vanity  lost, 
That  beauty  that  once  was  the  song  and  the  toast ; 
No  more  in  the  ball-room  that  figure  we  meet. 
But  gliding  at  dusk  to  the  wretch's  retreat. 
Forgot  in  the  halls  is  that  high-sounding  name, 
For  the  Sister  of  Charity  blusli<'s  at  fame ; 
Forgot  are  the  claims  of  her  riches  and  birth, 
For  she  barters  for  Heaven  the  glory  of  earth. 

Those  feet,  that  to  music  could  gracefully  move, 
Now  bear  her  alone  on  the  mission  of  love ; 


4(>4  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Those  han«ls,  that  once  danglod  the  ixM-fume  or  gem, 

Are  tending  the  helpless  or  lifted  for  them ; 

That  voice,  tliat  once  echoed  the  song  of  the  vain, 

Now  whispers  relief  to  the  bosom  of  pain  ; 

And  the  hair,  that  was  shining  with  diamond  and  pearl, 

Is  wet  with  the  tears  of  the  penitent  girl. 

Her  down-Vied  a  pallet,  her  trinkets  a  bead, 
Her  luster  one  taper  that  serves  her  to  read, 
Her  sculpture  the  crucifix  nailed  by  her  bed. 
Her  paintings  one  print  of  the  thorn-crowned  head. 
Her  cushion  the  pavement  that  wearies  her  knees, 
Her  music  the  psalm  or  the  sigh  of  disease, 
The  delicate  lady  lives  mortified  there, 
And  the  feast  is  forsaken  for  fasting  and  prayer. 

Yet  not  to  the  service  of  heart  and  of  mind 
Are  the  cares  of  that  Heaven-minded  virgin  confined, 
Like  Him  whom  she  loves,  to  the  mansion  of  grief 
She  hastes  with  the  tidings  of  joy  and  relief; 
She  strengthens  the  weary,  she  comforts  the  weak, 
And  soft  is  her  voice  in  the  ear  of  the  sick ; 
Where  want  and  affliction  on  mortals  attend. 
The  Sister  of  Charity  there  is  a  friend. 

Unshrinking  where  pestilence  scatters  his  breath, 
Like  an  angel  she  moves  'mid  the  vapor  of  death ; 
Where  rings  the  loud  musket  and  flashes  the  sword, 
Unfearing  she  walks,  for  she  follows  the  Lord. 
How  sweetly  she  bends  o'er  each  plague-tainted  face 
With  looks  that  are  lighted  with  holiest  grace ! 
How  kindly  she  dresses  each  suffering  limb, 
For  she  sees  in  the  wounded  the  image  of  Him ! 

Behold  her,  ye  worldly !  behold  her,  ye  vain ! 

Who  shrink  from  the  pathway  of  virtue  and  pain, 

Who  yield  up  to  pleasure  your  nights  and  your  days — 

Forgetful  of  service,  forgetful  of  praise ! 

Ye  lazy  philosophers,  self-seeking  men. 

Ye  fireside  philanthropists,  great  at  the  pen, 

How  stands  in  the  balance  your  eloquence  weighed 

With  the  life  and  the  deeds  of  that  delicate  maid  1 

I  add  another  charming  bridal  song,  the  vein  in  which  he  ex- 
celled, and  which  he  loved  so  well,  omitting  only  an  Irish  refrain, 
that  pedantry  of  patriotism  which  disfigures  so  many  of  these 
lovely  lyrics  : 

My  Mary  of  the  curling  hair. 

The  laughing  teeth  and  bashful  air, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  465 

Our  bridal  morn  is  dawning  fair 
With  blushes  in  the  skies. 

My  love !  mj'  pearl ! 

My  own  dear  girl ! 
My  mountain  maid,  arise ! 

Wake,  linnet  of  the  osier  grove  ! 
Wake,  trembling,  stainless  virgin  dove! 
Wake,  nestling  of  a  parent's  love ! 
Let  Moran  see  thine  eyes. 

I  am  no  stranger,  proud  and  gay. 
To  win  thee  from  thy  home  away, 
And  find  thee  for  a  distant  day, 
A  theme  for  wasting  sighs. 

But  -we  were  known  from  infiincy, 
Thy  father's  hearth  was  home  to  me, 
No  selfish  love  was  mine  for  thee. 
Unholy  and  unwise. 

And  yet  (to  see  what  love  can  do). 
Though  calm  my  hope  has  burned  and  true. 
My  cheek  is  pale  and  worn  for  you. 
And  sunken  are  mine  eyes! 

But  soon  my  love  shall  be  my  bride ; 
And  happy  by  our  own  fireside. 
My  veins  shall  feel  the  rosy  tide 
That  lingering  hope  denies. 

My  Mary  of  the  curling  hair, 
The  laughing  teeth  and  bashful  air, 
Our  bridal  morn  is  dawning  fair, 
With  blushes  in  the  skies. 
My  love  !   my  pearl ! 
My  own  dear  girl ! 
My  mountain  maid,  arise  ! 

As  a  novelist,  I  can  not  resist  tlie  temptation  of  pointing:  out  a 
chapter  in  one  of  Gerald  (I'riffin's  less-known  talcs,  which  has  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  remarkable  for  character,  for  spirit,  and   l()r 
"critical  and  verbal  felicity  of  the  highest  order. 

"  The  Collegians,"  partly  from  the  striking  interest  of  tlie 
story,  partly  from  a  certain  careless  grace  and  freshness  of  narra- 
tion, won  immediate  popularity.  "The  Rivals,"  ecpialiy  true  to 
individual  nature,  and  superior  in  constructive  skill,  was  com- 
paratively unsuccessful. 

u* 


466  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Porhaps  tlio  roason  of  this  failure  may  be  iound  in  the  princi- 
pal iiiciikMit,  resembling  in  its  main  points  that  of  Mr.  Leigh 
II lint's  •■  Legend  of  Florence."  The  heroine,  like  Ginevra,  is 
buried  while  in  a  trance,  and  recovered,  not  like  the  Itahan  wife, 
from  the  efiects  of  natural  causes,  but  by  the  half-crazy  efforts  of 
her  lover,  who  violates  the  sanctity  of  the  tomb  that  he  may  gaze 
once  again  in  death  upon  the  form  he  so  loved  while  living.  Now 
this  catastrophe,  although  it  may  have  occurred,  and  there  is  rea- 
son to  believe  has  occurred  in  more  instances  than  one,  is  yet, 
even  in  the  Italian  version,  so  improbable  and  so  horrible,  so  ut- 
terly repugnant  to  human  sympathy  as  to  be,  in  spite  of  Mr. 
Hunt's  success,  of  exceedingly  dangerous  and  questionable  use. 
whether  in  play  or  in  story.  Shakspeare,  who  always  foresaw 
as  by  instinct,  the  objections  of  his  audience,  seems  to  have  com- 
posed Juliet's  famous  speech  before  taking  the  sleeping  draught, 
by  way  of  forestalling  their  distaste  to  the  possible  consequences 
of  the  act ;  and  this  horror  is  so  much  aggravated  in  the  Irish 
tale  by  the  circumstance  of  the  closed  coffin,  that  no  power  of 
conception  or  skill  in  execution  could  insure  an  extensive  or  a 
durable  popularity  to  a  work  founded  on  such  a  basis.  There- 
fore, and  as  I  think  for  that  reason  only,  "  The  Rivals"  will 
never  command  the  same  full  applause  as  "  The  Collegians," 
which,  however  little  talked  of  at  this  moment,  is  sure  to  retain 
a  permanent  station  in  Irish  literature  ;  and  the  chapter  which  I 
am  about  to  quote  from  the  Second  Series  of  Tales  of  the  Munster 
Festivals,  will  probably  be  new  even  to  the  admirers  of  the  First. 

This  chapter  is,  strictly  speaking,  an  episode  ;  a  scene  in  a  vil- 
lage school,  whose  principal  actors,  the  ragged  Irish  pupil  who 
construes  Virgil  word  for  word,  and  the  almost  equally  ragged 
usher  who  corrects  his  blunders  and  encourages  his  successes,  never 
reappear,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  in  the  whole  course  of  the 
story.  The  enthusiasm  of  the  poor  County  Wicklow  Professor 
lighting  up  as  he  expounds  even  to  an  audience  of  tattered  and 
ignorant  boys,  the  beauties  of  his  favorite  bard,  the  manner  in 
which  his  own  English,  so  singularly  degraded  and  provincial  in 
his  ordinary  talk,  becomes  elevated  and  poetical  by  contact  with 
the  great  Mantuan,  is  one  of  the  finest  and  most  pathetic  instan- 
ces of  the  consolations  of  scholarship,  of  the  triumph  of  the  intel- 
lect over  the  situation,  that  I  have  anywhere  met.  It  would  be 
noted  as  one  of  his  happiest  touches  if  we  found  it  in  Scott. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  467 

I  have  only  to  beg  pardon  for  any  misprints  that  may  bu  found 
in  my  Latin  ;  of  which  in  the  reguh^r  grammatical  Etonian  sense 
I,  an  unlearned  woman,  know  absolutely  nothing  ; — referrincf  my- 
self wholly  to  the  care  and  kindness  of  Mr.  Bentley's  excellent 
body  of  compositors  and  readers,  who  in  this  as  in  many  other 
matters,  are  far  more  accomplished  and  scholarly  persons  than  I 
can  pretend  to  be.     Now  for  Gerald  Grillin. 

"  The  school-house  at  Glendalough  was  situated  near  the  ro- 
mantic river  which  flows  between  the  wild  scenery  of  Drumgoff 
and  the  Seven  Churches.  It  was  a  low  stone  building,  indiller- 
ently  thatched  ;  the  whole  interior  consisting  of  one  oblong  room, 
floored  with  clay,  and  lighted  by  two  or  three  windows,  the  panes 
of  which  were  patched  with  old  copy-books,  or  altogether  sup- 
planted by  school  slates.  The  walls  had  once  been  plastered  and 
whitewashed,  but  now  partook  of  that  appearance  of  dihipidation 
which  characterized  the  whole  building.  In  many  places  which 
yet  remained  uninjured,  the  malign  spirit  of  satire  {a  demon  for 
whom  the  court  is  not  too  high  nor  the  cottage  too  humble),  had 
developed  itself  in  sundry  amusing  and  ingenious  devices.  Here, 
with  the  end  of  a  burnt  stick,  was  traced  tlie  hideous  outline  of  a 
human  profile,  professing  to  be  a  likeness  of '  Tom  Gucrin,'  and 
here  might  be  seen  the  '  woful  lamentation  and  dying  declaration 
of  Neddy  Mulcahy,'  while  that  worthy  dangled  in  effigy  from  a 
gallows  overhead.  In  some  instances,  indeed,  the  village  Hogarth 
with  peculiar  hardihood  seemed  to  have  sketched  in  a  slight  hit 
at  '  the  Masther,'  the  formidable  Mr.  Lenigan  himself.  Along 
each  wall  were  placed  a  row  of  large  stones,  the  one  intended  to 
furnish  seats  for  the  boys,  the  other  for  the  girls  ;  the  decorum  of 
Mr.  Lenigan's  establishment  requiring  that  they  should  be  kept 
apart  on  ordinary  occasions,  for  Mr.  Lenigan,  it  should  be  under- 
stood, had  not  been  furnished  with  any  Pestalozzian  light.  The 
only  chair  in  the  whole  establishment  was  tl)at  which  was  usually 
occupied  by  Mr.  Lenigan  himself,  and  a  table  appeared  to  be  a 
luxury  of  which  they  were  either  ignorant  or  wholly  regardless. 

"  A  traveler  in  Ireland  who  is  acquainted  with  the  Aiii'i^-'nt 
chronicles  of  the  country,  must  be  struck  by  the  resemblance  be- 
tween the  ancient  and  modern  Irish  in  their  mode  of  education. 
In  that  translation  of  Stanihurst,  which  llollinshed  ailiiiils  into 
his  collection,  we  find  the  following  passage  :  '  In  their  schools 
they  grovel  upon  couches  of  straw,  their  books   at   their   noses, 


4(58  HKCOLLEl'TIONS    OF 

thomsL'lvi's  lie  flat  prostrate,  ami  so  they  slioul  out  with  a  loud 
voice  their  lessons  by  piecemeal,  repeatiuj^  t^vo  or  three  words 
thirty  or  I'orty  times  together.'  The  system  of  mnemonics  de- 
scribed in  the  last  sentence  is  still  in  vigorous  use. 

"  On  the  morning  after  the  conversation  described  in  the  last 
chapter,  Mr.  Lenigan  was  rather  later  than  his  usual  hour  in 
taking  po-ssession  of  the  chair  above  alluded  to.  The  sun  was 
mounting  swiftly  up  the  heavens.  The  rows  of  stones  before  de- 
scribed were  already  occupied,  and  the  babble  of  a  hundred  voices 
like  the  sound  of  a  beehive  filled  the  house.  Now  and  then  a 
school-boy  in  frieze  coat  and  corduroy  trowsers  with  an  ink-bottle 
dangling  at  his  breast,  copy-book,  slate,  Voster,  and  '  reading- 
book'  under  one  arm,  and  a  sod  of  turf  under  the  other,  dropped 
in  and  took  his  place  upon  the  next  unoccupied  stone.  A  great 
boy  with  a  huge  slate  in  his  arms,  stood  in  the  center  of  the  apart- 
ment, making  a  list  of  all  those  who  were  guilty  of  any  indecorum 
in  the  absence  of  '  the  Masther."  Near  the  door  was  a  blazing 
turf  fire,  which  the  sharp  autumnal  Avinds  already  rendered  agree- 
able. In  a  corner  behind  the  door  lay  a  heap  of  fuel  formed  by 
the  contributions  of  all  the  scholars,  each  being  obliged  to  bring 
one  sod  of  turf  every  day,  and  each  having  the  privilege  of  sitting 
by  the  fire  while  his  own  sod  was  burning.  Those  who  failed  to 
pay  their  tribute  of  fuel  sat  cold  and  shivering  the  whole  day  long 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  huddling  together  their  bare  and 
frost-bitten  toes,  and  casting  a  longing,  envious  eye  toward  the 
peristyle  of  well-marbled  shins  that  surrounded  the  fire. 

"  Full  in  the  influence  of  the  cherishing  flame  was  placed  the 
hay-bottomed  chair  that  supported  the  person  of  Mr.  Henry  Leni- 
gan, when  that  great  man  presided  in  person  in  his  rural  acad- 
emy. On  his  right  lay  a  close  bush  of  hazel  of  astounding  size, 
the  emblem  of  his  authority  and  the  implement  of  castigation. 
Near  this  was  a  wooden  sthroker,  that  is  to  say,  a  large  rule  of 
smooth  and  polished  deal,  used  for  sthroking  lines  in  the  copy- 
book, and  also  for  sthroking  the  palms  of  refractory  pupils.  On 
the  other  side  lay  a  lofty  heap  of  copy-books,  which  were  left  there 
by  the  boys  and  girls  for  the  purpose  of  having  their  copies  '  sot' 
by  the  '  Masther  I' 

"  About  noon  a  sudden  hush  was  produced  by  the  appearance 
at  the  open  door  of  a  young  man,  dressed  in  rusty  black,  and  with 
something  clerical  in  his  costume  and  demeanor.     This  was  Mr. 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  469 

Leiiigan's  classical  assistant  ;  for  to  himself  the  volumes  of  ancient 
literature  were  a  fountain  sealed.  Five  or  six  stout  young  men, 
all  of  whom  were  intended  for  learned  professions,  were  the  only 
portion  of  Mr.  Lenigan's  scholars  that  aspired  to  those  lofty 
sources  of  information.  At  the  sound  of  the  word  '  Virgil !'  from 
the  lips  of  the  assistant,  the  whole  class  started  from  their  seals, 
and  crowded  round  him,  each  brandishing  a  smoky  volume  of  the 
great  Augustan  poet,  who,  could  he  have  looked  into  this  Irish 
academy,  from  that  part  of  the  infernal  regions  in  which  he  had 
been  placed  by  his  pupil  Dante,  might  have  been  tempted  to  ex- 
claim, in  the  pathetic  words  of  his  own  hero  ; 

"  ' Sunt  hie  etiam  sua  praeruia  laudi, 

Sunt  lachrj'ma  rerum  et  menteiu  mortali  a  tangunt.' 

"  '  Who's  head  ?'  was  the  first  question  proposed  by  the  assis- 
tant, after  he  had  thrown  open  the  volume  at  that  part  marked 
as  the  day's  lesson. 

"  '  Jim  Naughtin,  Sir.' 

"  '  Well,  Naughtin,  begin.  Consther,*  consther  now,  an'  bo 
quick.' 

"  '  At  puer  Ascanius  mediis  in  vallibus  aeri 
Gaudet  equo ;  jamque  hos  cursu,  jam  preterit  illos  : 
Spumantemque  dari — ' 

"  '  Go  on.  Sir.     Why  don't  you  consther  ?' 

"  '  At  puer  Ascanius'  the  person  so  addressed  began,  '  but  the 
boy  Ascanius  ;  mediis  in  vallibus,  in  the  middle  of  the  valley  ; 
gaudet,  rejoices.' 

"  '  Exults,  ara  gal,  exults  is  a  betther  word.' 

"  '  Gaudet,  exults  ;  acri  equo,  upon  his  bitther  horpc.' 

"  '  Oh,  murther  alive  ;  his  bitther  horse,  inagh  ?  Erra,  what 
would  make  a  horse  be  bitther,  Jim  ?  Sure  'tis  not  of  sour  beer 
he's  talking  !  Rejoicin'  upon  a  bitther  horse  !  Dear  knows  what 
a  show  he  was  I  what  raison  he  had  for  it.  Acri  equo,  upon  his 
mettlesome  steed  ;   that's  the  consthruction.' 

"  Jim  proceeded  : 

"  '  Acri  equo,  upon  his  mettlesome  steed  ;  jamque,  and  now  ; 
prceterit,  he  goes  beyond — ' 

♦  C'l'n.struc— tran.slatc- 


470  K  KCO  L  LECTIONS    OF 

"  '  OiUslliiips,  acliree  I' 

"  '  Pia'tcrit,  he  outsthrips  ;  lios,  these  ;  janupie  illo^,  ami  now 
those  ;  curmii,  ia  his  course  ;  que,  and  ;  ojiUil,  he  lontjs — ' 

"  '  Very  good,  Jim  ;  longs  is  a  very  good  word  tliere  ;  1  thought 
you  were  going  to  say  wishes.     Did  any  body  tell  you  that  V 

"  '  Dickens  a  one,  Sir  !' 

"  '  That's  a  good  boy.     Well  ?' 

"  '  Optat,  he  longs  ;  spumanlnm  apnim,  that  a  foaming  boar  ; 
dari,  shall  be  given  ;  rolls,  to  his  desires  ;  aut  fulvimi  Iconum, 
or  that  a  tawny  lion — ' 

"  '  That's  a  good  word  again.  Taicny  is  a  good  word  ;  betther 
than  yellow.' 

"  '  Dccendcrc,  shall  descend  ;  monte,  from  the  mountain.' 

"  '  Now,  boys,  observe  the  beauty  of  the  poet.  There's  great 
nature  in  the  picture  of  the  boy  Ascanius.  Just  the  same  way 
as  we  see  young  Misther  Keiley,  of  the  Grove,  at  the  fox-chase 
the  other  day,  leadin'  the  whole  of  'em  right  and  left,  jamque 
hos,  jamque  illos,  an'  now  Misther  Cleary,  an'  now  Captain  Da- 
vis, he  outsthripped  in  his  course.  A  beautiful  picture,  boys, 
there  is  in  them  four  lines,  of  a  fine  high-blooded  youth.  Yes, 
people  are  always  the  same  ;  times  an'  manners  change,  but  the 
heart  o'  man  is  the  same  now  as  it  was  in  the  day  of  Augustus. 
But  consther  your  task,  Jim,  an'  then  I  give  you  an'  the  bojs  a 
little  commentary  upon  its  beauties.' 

"  The  boy  obeyed,  and  read  as  far  as  pratexit  nomine  culpani, 
after  which  the  assistant  proceeded  to  pronounce  his  little  com- 
mentary. Unwdlling  to  deprive  the  literary  world  of  any  advan- 
tage which  the  mighty  monarch  of  the  Roman  epopee  may  de- 
rive from  his  analysis,  we  subjoin  the  speech  without  any  abridg- 
ment. 

"  '  Now,  boys,  for  what  I  told  ye.  Them  seventeen  lines  that 
Tim  Naughtin  consthered  this  minute  contains  as  much  as  fifty 
in  a  modhern  book.  I  pointed  out  to  ye  before  the  picture  of 
Ascanius,  an"  I'll  back  it  again  the  world  for  nature.  Then 
there's  the  incipient  storm  : 

"  '  Interea  magno  misceri  murmure  coelum 
Incipit' 

Erra  I  don't  be  talkin',  but  listen  to  that !     There's  a  rumbling 
in  the  language  like  the  sound  of  comin'  thundher — 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  471 

"  '  — iosequitur  conmixta  grandine  nimbus.' 

D'ye  hear  the  change  ?  D'ye  hear  all  the  s's  ?  D'ye  hear  'em 
whistlin'  ?  D'ye  hear  the  black  squall  comin'  up  the  hillside, 
brushin'  up  the  dust  and  dhry  leaves  off  the  road,  and  hissin' 
through  the  threes  and  bushes  ?  An'  d'ye  hear  the  hail  dhriven 
afther,  and  spattherin'  the  laves,  and  whitenin'  the  face  o'  the 
counthry  ?  Conmixta  grandine  nimbus !  That  I  mightn't 
sin,  but  when  I  read  them  words,  I  gather  my  head  down  be- 
tween my  shouldhers,  as  if  it  was  hailin'  a  top  o'  me.  An'  then 
the  sighth  of  all  the  huntiu'  party  I  Dido,  an'  the  Throjans,  an' 
all  the  great  court  ladies  and  the  Tyrian  companions  scatthercd 
like  cracked  people  about  the  place,  lookin'  for  shelther.  and  pelt- 
in'  about  right  and  left,  hether  and  thether  in  all  directions  for 
the  bare  life,  an'  the  floods  swellin'  an'  coming,  an'  thundhcriu' 
down  in  rivers  from  the  mountains,  an'  all  in  three  lines  : 

"  '  Et  Tyrii  comite.s  passim,  et  Trojana  juventus 
Dardaniusqiie  nepos  Veneris,  dives.sa  per  agroa 
Tecta  metu  peticre  :  ruunt  do  montibus  amnes.' 

An'  see  the  beauty  of  the  poet,  followiii'  up  the  character  of  As- 
canius  ;  he  makes  him  the  last  to  quit  the  field.  First  the  Ty- 
rian comrades,  an  effeminate  race,  that  ran  at  the  sighth  of  a 
shower,  as  if  they  were  made  o'  salt,  that  they'd  melt  under  it  ; 
an'  then  the  Throjan  youth,  lads  that  were  used  to  it  in  the  first 
book  ;  an'  last  of  all  the  spirited  boy  Ascanius  himself  (Silence 
near  the  doore !) 

"  '  Speluncam  Dido,  dux  et  Trojanus  eandem, 
Deveniunt.' 

Observe,  boys,  he  no  longer  calls  him  as  of  old,  the  jnus  JEneas, 
only  Dux  Trojanus,  the  Throjan  laidhcr,  an'  'tis  he  that  was  the 
laidher  and  the  lad  ;  see  the  taste  of  the  poet  not  to  call  him  tlie 
pious  iEneas  now,  nor  even  mention  his  name,  as  if  he  were  hall 
ashamed  of  him,  knowin'  well  what  a  lad  he  had  to  dale  with. 
There's  where  Virgil  took  the  crust  out  o'  Homer's  mouth  in  the 
nateness  of  his  language,  that  you'd  gather  a  part  o'  the  foci  in' 
from  the  very  shape  o'  the  line  an'  turn  o'thc  prosody.  As  for- 
merly, when  Dido  was  askiu'  yEiieas  conceniiu'  where  lie  come 
from,  an'  where  he  was  born  ?     He  makes  answer  : 


472  KECO  LLECTIOXS    OF 

"  ■  Est  loc\is  Hi'spt'riain  Qniii  cognomiiic  dicuiit 
Torra  aiitiiiua,  potens  aimis  atquo  ubore  gkbas 
Hue  cnrsus  fiiit :' 

All'  tlicre  the  line  stops  short,  as  much  as  to  say,  just  as  I  cut  this 
line  short  in  spakin'  to  you  just  so  our  coorse  was  cut,  in  going  to 
Italy.  The  same  way,  when  Juno  is  vexed  in  talkin'  o'  the 
'I'hrojans,  he  makes  her  spake  bad  Latin  to  show  how  mad  she  is  : 
(Silence  !) 

"  '  — Mene  incepto  dcsistere  victam 

Nee  posse  Italia  Teucrorum  avertere  regemi 
Quippe  vetor  fatis !  Pallasne  exurere  classem 
Argivum,  atquo  ipsos  potuit  submergere  ponto.' 

So  he  laves  you  to  guess  what  a  passion  she  is  in,  when  he  makes 
her  lave  an  infinitive  mood  without  any  thing  to  govern  it.  You 
can't  attribute  it  to  ignorance,  for  it  would  be  a  dhroll  thing  in 
airnest,  if  Juno  the  queen  of  all  the  gods  didn't  know  a  common 
rule  in  syntax,  so  that  you  have  nothing  for  it  but  to  say  that  she 
must  be  the  very  moral  of  a  jury.  Such,  boys,  is  the  art  o'  poets, 
an'  the  janius  o'  languages. 

"  'But  I  kept  ye  long  enough.  Go  along  to  ye'r  Greek  now, 
as  fast  as  ye  can,  an'  reharse.  An'  as  for  ye,'  continued  the 
learned  commentator,  turning  to  the  mass  of  English  scholars, 
'  I  see  one  comin'  over  the  river  that'll  taich  ye  how  to  behave 
yerselves,  as  it  is  a  thing  ye  won't  do  for  me.  Put  up  yer  Virgils 
now,  boys,  an'  out  with  the  Greek,  an'  remember  the  beauties  I 
pointed  out  to  ye,  for  they're  things  that  few  can  explain  to  ye,  if 
ye  hav'n't  the  luck  to  think  of  'em  yerselves.' 

"  The  class  separated,  and  a  hundred  anxious  eyes  were  direct- 
ed toward  the  open  door.  It  afTorded  a  glimpse  of  a  sunny  green, 
and  a  bubbling  river,  over  which  Mr.  Lenigan,  followed  by  his 
brother  David,  was  now  observed  in  the  act  of  picking  his  cau- 
tious way.  At  this  apparition  a  sudden  change  took  place  in  the 
condition  of  the  entire  school.  Stragglers  flew  to  their  places  ; 
the  impatient  burst  of  laughter  was  cut  short  ;  the  growing  bit 
of  rage  was  quelled  ;  the  uplifted  hand  dropped  harmless  by  the 
side  of  its  owner  ;  merry  faces  grew  serious  ;  and  angry  ones 
peaceable  ;  the  eyes  of  all  seemed  poring  on  their  books ;  and  the 
extravagant  uproar  of  the  last  half-hour  was  hushed  on  a  sudden 
into  a  diligent  murmur.      Those  who  were  most  proficient  in  the 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  473 

study  of '  the  Masther's'  ph}^siognomy  detected  in  the  expression 
of  his  eyes  as  he  entered  and  greeted  his  assistant,  something  of  a 
troubled  and  uneasy  character.  He  took  the  list  with  a  severe 
countenance,  from  the  hands  of  the  boy  above  mentioned,  sent  all 
those  whose  names  he  found  upon  the  fatal  record  to  kneel  down 
in  a  corner  until  he  should  find  leisure  to  '  haire'  them,  and  then 
prepared  to  enter  upon  his  daily  functions." 

For  the  present  however  the  delinquents  are  saved  by  the  en- 
trance of  a  fresh  character  upon  the  scene. 

"  The  new-comer  was  a  handsome  young  woman  who  carried 
a  pet  child  in  her  arms  and  held  another  by  the  hand.  The 
sensation  of  pleasure  which  ran  among  the  young  culprits  at  her 
appearance  showed  her  to  be  their  'great  Captain's  Captain,'  the 
beloved  and  loving  helpmate  of  Mr.  Lenigan,  casting,  unperceived 
by  her  lord,  an  encouraging  smile  toward  the  kneeling  culprits, 
she  took  an  opportunity  while  engaged  in  a  wheedling  conversa- 
tion with  her  husband,  to  purloin  his  deal  rule  and  to  blot  out  the 
list  of  the  proscribed  from  the  slate,  after  which  she  stole  out 
calling  David  to  dig  the  potatoes  for  dinner." 

And  so,  we  too  will  leave  the  school. 


474  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


XXXVI. 

MOCK-HEROIC    POETRY. 

JOHN    HOOKIIAM    FRERE. 

Long  before  "  Beppo,"  the  experiment  of  imitating  the  well- 
knovm  Italian  school,  which  unites  bo  strangely  the  wildest 
romance  of  chivalry  with  pungent  satire  and  good-humored 
pleasantrj^  had  been  successfully  tried  by  John  Hookham  Frere, 
one  of  Mr.  Canning's  most  brilliant  coadjutors  in  the  poetry  of 
the  "  Anti-Jacobin."  The  mock-heroic  in  question  bore  the 
curious  title  of  "  Prospectus  and  Specimen  of  an  intended  Na- 
tional Work,  hij  William  and  Robert  Wliistlecroft,  of  Stoiv- 
market,  in  Suffolk,  Harness  and  Collar  Makers.  Intended  to 
comprise  the  most  Interesting  Particulars  relating  to  King 
Arthur  and  his  Round-  Table!'''  Two  cantos  were  published 
by  Mr.  Murray  in  1817  ;  and  a  third  and  fourth  rapidly  followed. 
The  success  was  decided ;  but  the  poem  has  been  long  out  of 
print,  and  is  now  among  the  scarcest  books  in  modern  literature. 

To  attempt  to  tell  the  story  of  a  poem  which  travels  backward 
and  forward  from  knights  to  giants,  and  from  giants  to  monks, 
no  sooner  interesting  you  in  one  set  of  personages  than  he  casts 
them  off  to  fly  to  other  scenes  and  other  actors,  would  be  a  fruit- 
less task.  Who  would  venture  to  trace  the  adventures  of  the 
Orlando  Furioso  ?  and  Mr.  Frere,  in  imitating  the  "  Morgante 
Maggiore,"  and  other  parodies  of  the  great  poet  of  romance,  has 
won  for  himself  the  privilege  of  wandering  at  pleasure  over  the 
whole  realm  of  chivalrous  fable,  and  makes  the  best  use  of  that 
privilege  by  being  often  picturesque,  often  amusing,  and  never 
wearisome. 

The  poem  opens  with  a  feast  given  by  King  Arthur  at  Carlisle 
to  his  knights,  who  are  thus  described  : 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  475 

They  looked  a  manly,  generous  generation, 

Beards,  shoulders,  eyebrows,  broad  and  square  and  thick ; 

Their  accents  firm  and  loud  in  conversation. 

Their  eyes  and  gestures  eager,  sharp  and  quick, 

Showed  them  prepared  on  proper  provocation 

To  give  the  lie,  pull  noses,  stab  and  kick ; 

And  for  that  very  reason,  it  is  said. 

They  M^ere  so  very  courteous  and  well-bred.  • 

Then  come  the  giants,  living  in  a  valley  near  Carlisle.  The 
description  of  this  place  affords  an  excellent  opportunity  for  dis- 
playing Mr.  Frere's  command  over  a  higher  order  of  poetr)'. 

Huge  mountains  of  immeasurable  height 
Encompassed  all  the  level  valley  round 
With  mighty  slabs  of  rocks,  that  stood  upright, 
An  insurmountable  and  enormous  mound. 
The  very  river  vanished  out  of  sight, 
Absorbed  in  secret  channels  underground ; 
That  vale  was  so  sequestered  and  secluded, 
All  search  for  ages  past  it  had  eluded. 

A  rock  was  in  the  center,  like  a  cone 
Abruptly  rising  from  a  miry  pool, 
Where  they  beheld  a  hill  of  massy  stone, 
Which  masons  of  the  rude  primeval  school 
Had  reared  by  help  of  giant  hands  alone, 
With  rocky  fragments  unreduced  by  rule  ; 
In-egular,  like  nature  more  than  art. 
Huge,  rugged  and  compact  in  every  part. 

A  wild  tumultuous  torrent  raged  around 
Of  fragments  tumbling  from  the  mountain's  height ; 
The  whistling  clouds  of  dust,  the  deafening  sound, 
The  hurried  motion  that  amazed  the  sight. 
The  constant  quaking  of  the  solid  ground. 
Environed  them  with  jthantonis  of  atlVight; 
Yet  with  heroic  hearts  they  held  right  on 
Till  the  last  point  of  their  ascent  was  won. 

The  giants  who  dwelt  in  this  romantic  spot  had  captured  some 
ladies,  whom  the  knights  thought  it  their  duty  to  deliver.  They 
overcame  the  grisly  warriors  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  the  state 
in  which  they  find  the  fair  prisoners  is  related  in  a  stanza  of 
which  the  concluding  couplet  bears  some  resemblance  to  a  well- 
known  transition  in  "  Don  Juan." 

The  ladies  !     They  were  tolerably  well, 

At  least  as  well  as  could  be  well  expected: 


47G  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Many  dt'tails  I  must  forbear  to  toll. 
Their  toilet  had  been  very  much  neglected ; 
But  by  supreme  good  luck  it  so  bel'ell 
That,  when  the  castle's  capture  was  effected, 
When  those  vile  cannibals  were  overpowered 
Only  two  fat  duenna  were  devoured. 

Ill  the  third  book,  according  to  the  universal  practice  of  the 
Italian  poets,  the  story  takes  a  backward  leap,  and  recounts  a 
previous  feud  between  the  giants  and  the  inhabitants  of  a  neigh- 
l)oring  monastery.  A  certain  monk.  Brother  John  by  name,  who 
had  gone  out  alone  to  fish  in  a  stream  near  the  Abbey,  is  luckily 
enabled  to  give  notice  to  the  brethren  of  the  approach  of  their 
enemies.     The  scene  of  his  sport  is  finely  described. 

A  mighty  current,  unconfined  and  free, 

Ran  wheedling  round  beneath  the  mountain's  shade, 

Battering  its  wave-worn  base  ;  but  you  might  see 

On  the  near  margin  many  a  watery  glade, 

Becalmed  beneath  some  little  island's  lee, 

All  tranquil  and  transparent,  close  embayed  ; 

Reflecting  in  the  deep  serene  and  even 

Each  flower  and  herb,  and  every  cloud  of  heaven. 

The  painted  king-fisher,  the  branch  above  her 
Hard  in  the  steadfast  mirror  fixed  at  me ; 
Anon  the  fitful  breezes  brood  and  hover 
Freshening  the  surface  with  a  rougher  hue ; 
Spreading,  withdrawing,  pausing,  passing  over, 
Again  returning  to  retire  anew : 
So  rest  and  motion  in  a  narrow  range 
Feasted  the  sight  with  joyous  interchange. 

A  stout  resistance  is  made  by  the  monks,  and  the  giants  at 
length  withdraw  from  the  scene  of  action  : 

And  now  the  gates  are  opened,  and  the  throng 
Forth  issuing  the  deserted  camp  survey ; 
"  Here  Mardomack  and  Mangone  the  strong 
And  Qorbudnek  were  lodged,  and  here,"  they  say, 
"  This  pigstye  to  Poldavy  did  belong ; 
Here  Roundleback  and  here  Phigander  lay." 
They  view  the  deep  indentures,  broad  and  round, 
Which  mark  their  postures  squatting  on  the  ground. 

Then  to  the  traces  of  gigantic  feet, 
Huge,  wide  apart,  with  half  a  dozen  toes ; 
They  track  them  on,  till  they  converge  and  meet 
(An  earnest  and  assurance  of  repose) 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  477 

Close  at  the  ford.     The  cause  of  this  retreat 
They  all  conjecture,  but  no  creature  knows ; 
It  was  ascribed  to  causes  multifarious, 
To  saints,  as  Jerom,  George,  and  Januarius, 
To  their  own  pious  founder's  intercession, 
To  Ave-Marias  and  our  Lady's  Psalter ; 
To  news  that  Friar  John  was  in  possession, 
To  new  wax-candles  placed  upon  the  altar, 
To  their  own  prudence,  valor,  and  discretion : 
To  reliques,  rosaries,  and  holy  water ; 
To  beads  and  psalms,  and  feats  of  arms ; — in  short 
There  was  no  end  of  their  accounting  for't. 

In  the  last  volume  of  Mr.  Lockhart's  "  Life  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,"  there  is  a  very  interesting  account  of  the  delight  which 
the  great  minstrel  took  to  the  last  in  Mr.  Frere's  spirited  versions 
of  the  old  Spanish  ballads.  "  In  speaking  of  Mr.  Frere's  trans- 
lations he  repeated  a  pretty  long  passage  from  his  version  of  one 
of  the  romances  of  the  Cid  (published  in  the  Appendix  to 
Southey's  Gluarto),  and  seemed  to  enjoy  a  spirited  charge  of  the 
knights  therein  described,  as  much  as  he  could  have  done  iu  his 
best  days ;  placing  his  walking-stick  in  rest  like  a  lance,  to  suit 
the  action  to  the  word." — Extract  from  Mrs.  John  Davy's  Jour- 
nal of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  residence  in  Malton. 

The  following  is  the  passage  referred  to  : 

The  gates  were  then  thrown  open,  and  forth  at  once  they  rushed. 

The  outposts  of  the  Moorish  hosts  back  to  the  camp  were  pushed; 

The  camp  was  all  in  tumult,  and  there  was  such  a  thunder 

Of  cymbals  and  of  drums,  as  if  earth  would  cleave  in  sunder, 

There  you  might  see  the  Moors  arming  themselves  iu  haste, 

And  the  two  main  battles  how  they  were  pouring  past, 

Horsemen  and  footmen  mixed,  a  countless  troop  and  vast.  .  . 

The  Moors  are  moving  forward,  the  battle  soon  must  join  : 

"  My  men  stand  here  in  order,  ranged  \\\wn  a  line  ! 

Let  not  a  man  move  froin  his  rank  bc'forc  I  give  the  sign." 

Pero  Bermuez  heard  the  word,  but  he  could  not  refrain. 

He  held  the  banner  in  his  hand,  he  gave  his  horse  tlie  rein : 

"  You  see  yon  foremost  squadron  there,  the  tliickest  of  the  foes, 

Noble  Cid,  God  be  your  aid,  for  there  your  banner  goes ! 

Let  him  who  serves  and  honors  it  show  the  duty  that  he  owes." 

Earnestly  the  Cid  called  out :  "  For  Heaven's  sake  l)e  still  !" 

Bermuez  cried,  "  I  can  not  hold  !"  so  engiT  was  his  will. 

He  spurred  his  horse  and  drove  him  on  amid  tlie  Moorish  rout ; 

They  strove  to  win  the  banner,  and  compassed  liiin  about. 


478  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Had  not  his  armor  bocii  so  true,  he  had  hist  either  life  or  limb ; 

The  Cid  called  out  again  :  "  For  Heaven's  sake  succor  him  !" 

Their  shields  before  their  breasts  forth  at  once  they  go, 

Their  lances  in  the  rest  leveled  fair  and  low, 

Their  heads  all  stooping  down  toward  the  saddle-bow. 

The  Cid  was  in  the  midst,  his  shout  was  heard  afar, 

'•  I  am  Ruy  Diaz,  the  champion  of  Bivar ! 

Strike  among  them,  gentlemen,  for  sweet  Mercy's  sake  !" 

Then  where  Bermuez  fought  amid  the  foe  they  brake  ; 

Three  hundred  gallant  knights,  it  was  a  gallant  show, 

Three  hundred  Moors  they  killed,  a  man  at  every  blow  ! 

When  they  wheeled  and  turned,  as  many  more  lay  slain, 

You  might  see  them  raise  their  lances,  and  level  them  again. 

There  you  might  see  the  breastplates,  how  they  were  cleft  in  twain. 

And  many  a  Moorish  shield  lie  scattered  ou  the  plain. 

The  pennons  that  were  white  marked  with  a  crimson  stain, 

The  horses  running  wild  whose  riders  had  been  slain. 

Mr.  Frere's  familiarity  with  Spanish  Uterature  probably  took 
its  rise  from  his  employment  in  various  diplomatic  missions  during 
the  Peninsular  war  ;  but  his  great  achievement  as  a  translator  is 
of  a  far  higher  and  more  difficult  order.  The  following  specimen 
of  his  version  of  "  The  Frogs"  of  Aristophanes  will  show  how 
complete  he  has  contrived  to  naturalize  the  wit  and  humor  of  th'3 
old  Athenian  dramatist.  The  passage  about  "  full  and  equal 
franchise"  might  pass  for  a  translation  from  half  a  dozen  modern 
languages  at  the  present  hour  : 

RAN^. 

C/wms. 

Muse,  attend  our  solemn  summons, 

And  survey  the  assembled  Commons 

Congregated  as  they  sit. 

An  enormous  mass  of  wit, 

— Full  of  genius,  taste  and  fire, 

Jealous  pride  and  critic  ire — 

Cleophon  among  the  rest 

(Like  the  swallow  from  her  nest, 

A  familiar  foreign  bird) 

Chatters  loud  and  will  be  heard, 

(With  the  accent  and  the  grace 

Which  he  brought  with  him  from  Thrace) 

But  we  fear  the  tuneful  strain 

Must  be  turned  to  grief  and  pain ; 

He  must  sing  a  dirge  perforce 

When  his  trial  takes  its  course; 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  479 

We  shall  hear  him  moan  and  wail 

Like  the  plaintive  nightingale. 
It  behooves  the  sacred  Chorus,  and  of  right  to  them  belongs, 
To  suggest  sagacious  counsels  in  their  verses  and  their  songs. 
Ill  performance  of  our  office  we  suggest  with  all  humility 
A  proposal  for  removing  groundless  fears  and  disability; 


Better  would  it  be,  believe  us,  casting  off  revenge  and  pride. 

To  receive  as  friends  and  kinsmen  all  that  combat  on  our  side 

Into  full  and  equal  franchise  :   on  the  other  hand,  we  f<.'ar 

If  your  hearts  are  filled  with  fancies,  proud,  captious  and  severe, 

While  the  shock  of  instant  danger  threatens  shipwreck  to  the  State 

Such  resolves  will  be  lamented  and  repented  of  too  late. 

If  the  Muse  foresees  at  all 

What  in  future  will  befall 

Dirty  Cleiganes  the  small — 

He  the  scoundrel  at  the  bath — 

Will  not  long  escape  from  scatli. 

But  must  perish  by  and  by, 

With  his  potash  and  his  lye. 

And  his  soap  and  scouring  ball, 

And  his  washes,  one  or  all ; 

Therefore  he  can  never  cease 

To  declaim  against  a  peace. 

These  two  portraits  of  Cleophon  and  Cleiganes  are  so  graphic 
that  they  might  serve  H.  B.  as  models  for  a  caricature.  What 
follows  introduces  the  celebrated  contest  for  supremacy  between 
^•Eschylus  and  Euripides.  The  scene  is  laid  iu  the  Infernal 
Regions : 

Enter  Xanthias  a7id  ^acus. 


By  Jupiter!   but  he's  a  gentleman, 
That  master  of  yours. 

XANTHIA.?. 

A  gentleman!   to  be  sure  he  is; 

Why,  he  does  nothing  else  but  wench  and  diink. 


Ilis  never  striking  you  when  you  took  his  name — 
Outfacing  him  and  contradicting  Lira! 

XA.NTIIIA3. 

It  might  have  been  worse  for  him  if  lie  ha<l. 


480  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


Well,  that's  well  spoken,  like  a  true-bred  slave. 
It's  just  the  sort  of  language  I  delight  in. 

XANTHIAS. 

You  love  excuses  ? 

JEACUS. 

Yes,  but  I  prefer 
Cursing  my  master  quietly  in  private. 

XANTHIAS. 

Mischief  you're  fond  of  ? 

S.KCX!S. 

Very  fond,  indeed. 

XANTHIAS. 

What  think  you  of  muttering  as  you  leave  the  room 
After  a  beating  1 

JEACUS. 

Why  that's  pleasant  too. 

XANTHIAS. 

By  Jove  it  is !   but  listening  at  the  door 
To  hear  their  secrets  1 

JEAcns. 
Oh!   there's  nothing  like  it! 

XANTHIAS. 

And  then  the  reporting  them  in  the  neighborhood. 

.EACUS. 

That's  beyond  every  thing,  that's  quite  ecstatic. 

XANTHIAS. 

Well,  give  me  your  hand,  and  there,  take  mine, — and  buss  me, 
And  there  again — and  tell  me,  for  Jupiter's  sake — 
For  he's  the  patron  of  our  kicks  and  beatings — 
What's  all  that  noise  and  bustle  and  abuse 
Within  there 

^ACL'S. 

.^schylus  and  Euripides  only. 


Ha? 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  481 


Why  there's  a  custom  we  have  established 
In  favor  of  professors  of  the  arts. 
When  any  one,  the  first  man  in  his  line 
Comes  down  among  us  here,  he  stands  entitled 
To  privilege  and  precedence,  with  a  seat 
At  Pluto's  royal  hoard. 

XANTHfAS. 

I  understand  you. 


So  he  maintains  it,  till  there  comes  a  better 
Of  the  same  sort,  and  then  resigns  it  up. 

XANTHIAS. 

But  why  should  ^schylus  be  disturbed  at  thisl 

JEACVS. 

He  held  the  seat  for  Tragedy,  as  being  master 
In  that  profession. 

XAXTHIAS. 

Well,  and  who's  there  now  1 


He  kept  it  till  Euripides  appeared ; 

But  he  collected  audiences  about  him, 

And  flourished  and  exhibited  and  harangued 

Before  the  thieves,  and  housebreakers,  and  rogues, 

Cut-purses,  cheats  and  vagabonds  and  villains, 

That  make  the  mass  of  population  here ; 

And  they — being  quite  transported  and  delighted 

With  all  his  subtleties,  and  niceties. 

Equivocations,  quibbles  and  so  forth, 

Evasions  and  objections  and  replies, — 

In  short — they  raised  an  uproar,  and  declared  him 

Arch  poet,  by  a  general  acclamation. 

And  he  with  this  grew  proud  and  confident, 

And  laid  a  claim  to  the  seat  where  iEschylus  sate. 

XAN'TIIIA.S. 

And  did  he  not  get  pelted  for  his  pains'? 


Why,  DO. — The  mob  called  out,  and  it  was  carried 
To  have  a  public  trial  of  skill  between  them. 
X 


482  UECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

XWTIIIAS. 

You  mcau  the  mob  of  scoundrels  that  you  mentioned  ? 

JEACUS. 

Scoundrels,  indeed  !     Ay,  scoundrels  without  number. 

XANTHIAS. 

But  iEschylus  must  have  good  friends  and  hearty. 

«ACL'S. 

Yes ;  but  good  men  are  scarce,  both  here  and  elsewhere. 

XANTHIA.'S. 

Well,  what  has  Pluto  settled  to  have  done  1 

S^ACVS. 

To  have  a  trial  and  examination 
In  public. 

XANTHIAS. 

But  how  comes  it,  Sophocles  1 
Why  does  not  ho  put  in  his  claim  among  them  1 


No,  no,  not  he  ! — the  moment  he  came  down  here 

He  went  up  and  saluted  yEschylus, 

And  kissed  his  cheek  and  took  his  hand  quite  kindly  ; 

And  ^schyhis  edged  a  little  from  his  chair 

To  give  him  room  ;  so  now,  the  story  goes, 

(At  least  I  had  it  from  Cleidemides,) 

He  means  to  attend  there  as  a  stander-by. 

Professing  to  take  up  the  conqueror. 

If  ^schylus  gets  the  better, — well  and  good, 

He  gives  up  his  pretensions ; — but,  if  not 

He'll  stand  a  trial,  he  says,  against  Euripides. 

It  is  impossible  for  any  translator  to  give  a  more  perfect  render- 
ing of  comedy.  The  facility,  the  flow,  the  living,  breathing, 
chattering  impudence  of  the  two  slaves  is  inimitable,  lively  and 
true.  It  may  be  doubted  if  Sheridan  knew  much  about  Aristo- 
phanes, but  following  the  same  great  model.  Nature,  he  has  pro- 
duced a  companion  scene  to  this  dialogue  in  the  opening  of  "  The 
Rivals."  The  compliment  to  Sophocles  and  yEschylus  is  very 
graceful.  Bacchus,  the  appointed  judge,  now  enters,  accom- 
panied by  the  rival  bands,  and  the  contest  begins. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  488 

Chorus. 

Here  beside  you,  here  are  we 
Eager  all  to  hear  and  see 
This  abstruse  and  curious  battle 
Of  profound  and  learned  prattle, 
— But  as  it  appears  to  me, 
Thus  the  course  of  it  will  be ; 
That  the  junior  and  appellant 
Will  advance  as  the  assailant. 
Aiming  shrewd  satiric  darts 
At  his  rival's  noble  parts, 
And,  with  sallies  sharp  and  keen, 
Try  to  wound  liim  in  the  spleen ; 
While  the  veteran  sends  and  raises 
Rifted  rough  uprooted  phrases. 
Wields  them  like  a  thrashing  staff, 
And  dispels  the  dust  and  chafl:^. 


Come  now  begin  and  speak  away ;  but  first  I  give  you  warning 
That  all  your  language  and  discourse  must  be  genteel  and  clever 
Without  abusive  similes,  or  common  vulgar  joking. 


At  the  first  outset  I  forbear  to  state  my  own  pretensions; 

Hereafter  I  shall  mention  them  when  his  have  been  refuted ; 

And  after  I  have  proved  and  showTi  how  he  abused  and  cheated 

The  rustic  audience  that  he  found,  which  Phrygia  has  bequeathed  him. 

He  planted  first  upon  the  stage  a  figure  vailed  and  muffled. 

An  Achilles  or  a  Niobe  that  never  showed  their  faces, 

But  kept  a  tragic  attitude  without  a  word  to  utter. 

BACCHUS. 

No  more  they  did :  it's  very  true. — 

EURIPIDE.S. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  Chorus 
Strung  on  ten  strophes  right  an  end,  but  they  remained  in  silence. 

BACCHCB. 

I  liked  that  silence  well  enough ;  as  well  perhaps  or  better 
Than  those  new  talking  characters. 

EURIPIDES. 

That's  from  your  want  of  judgment, 
Believe  me. 


484  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

HAcriii;a. 
Wliy  jKMlmps  it  is; — but  what  was  his  intention? 

Kl'RIPIDKS. 

Why  mere  conceit  and  insolence; — to  keep  the  people  waiting 
Till  Niobo  should  deign  to  speak,  to  drive  his  drama  forward. 


0  what  a  rascal !    Now  I  see  the  tricks  he  used  to  play  me. 

[  To  Aischylus,  who  is  shoicing  signs  of  indignation  by 
various  contortions.] 
— What  makes  you  writhe  and  wince  about "? 

EURIPIDES. 

Because  he  feels  my  censiires. 
Then  having  dragged  and  drawled  along  half-way  to  the  conclusion 
He  foisted  in  a  dozen  words  of  noisy  boisterous  accent, 
With    ''  nodding    plumes   and    shaggy   brows,"    mere    bugbears    of  the 

language, 
That  no  man  ever  heard  before. 

.ESCHYLUS. 

Alas  !  alas  ! 

BACCHUS,  [to  ^schylus.] 

Have  done  there ! 

EURIPIDES. 

His  words  were  never  clear  or  plain. 


BACCHUS,  [to  ^'Eschylus.'] 

Don't  grind  your  teeth  so  strangely. 


EURIPIDES. 


But  Bulwarks  and  Scamanders,  and  Hippogrifs,  and  Gorgons, 
"Embossed  on  brazen  bucklers"  and  grim  remorseless  phrases 
Which  nobody  could  understand. 


Well,  I  confess  for  my  part, 
I  used  to  keep  awake  at  night,  conjecturing  and  guessing 
To  think  what  kind  of  foreign  bird  he  meant  by  Griffin-hor.ses. 

«SCHYLUS. 

A  figure  on  the  heads  of  ships ;   you  goose,  you  must  have  seen  them. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  485 

BACCHUS. 

I  took  it  for  Philoserus,  for  my  part,  from  the  likeness. 

KURIPIDES. 

So !  figures  from  the  heads  of  ships  are  fit  for  tragic  diction. 

.ESCHYLUS. 

Well  then,  thou  paltry  wretch,  explain— What  were  thy  own  devices "? 

EURIPIDES. 

Not  stories  about  fl3'ing  stags,  like  yours,  and  griffin-horses; 

Nor  terms  nor  images  derived  from  tapestry  Persian  hangings. 

When  I  received  the  Muse  from  you,  I  found  her  pufl'ed  and  pampered 

With  pompous  sentences  and  terms,  a  cumbrous  huge  virago. 

My  first  attention  was  applied  to  make  her  look  genteelly, 

And  bring  her  to  a  moderate  bulk  by  dint  of  lighter  diet. 

I  fed  her  with  plain  household  phrase,  and  cool  familiar  salad, 

With  water-gruel  episode,  with  sentimental  jelly, 

With  moral  mince-meat ;  till  at  length  I  brought  her  within  compass : 

Cephisophon,  who  was  my  cook,  contrived  to  make  them  relish. 

I  kept  my  plots  distinct  and  clear;  and  to  prevent  confusion 

My  leading  characters  rehearsed  their  pedigrees  for  prologues. 

.ESCHYLUS. 

'Twas  well  at  least  that  you  forbore  to  quote  your  own  extraction. 

(This  is  a  most  characteristic  bit  of  Athenian  malice.     Eurip- 
ides was  illegitimate.) 


From  the  first  opening  of  the  scene,  all  persons  were  in  action : 

The  master  spoke,  the  slave  replied ; — the  women,  old  and  young  ones, 

All  had  their  equal  share  of  talk. 

;eschylus. 
Come  tlicn,  stand  fortli  and  tell  us 
What  forfeit  less  than  death  is  due  for  such  an  innovation  "? 

EURIPIDKS. 

I  did  it  upon  principle,  from  democratic  motives. 

B.\CCHUS. 

Take  care,  my  friend;  upon  that  ground  your  footing  is  but  ticklisli. 

KI.RIPIDKS. 

I  taught  these  youths  to  speechify. 


486  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

a;schylu8. 

I  say  80  too.    Moreover 
I  sny,  tliat  for  tlie  public  good,  you  ought  to  have  been  banged  lirst. 

EURIPIDES. 

The  rules  and  forms  of  rhetoric ;  the  laws  of  composition ; 
To  prate,  to  state,  and  in  debate  to  meet  a  question  fairly ; 
At  a  dead  lift  to  turn  and  shift ;  to  make  a  nice  distinction. 

jESCHVr.US, 

I  grant  it  all ;  I  make  it  all  my  ground  of  accusation. 


The  whole  in  cases  and  concerns,  occurring  and  recurring, 

At  every  turn  and  every  day,  domestic  and  familiar ; 

So  that  the  audience,  one  and  all,  from  personal  experience, 

AVere  competent  to  judge  the  piece  and  form  a  fair  opinion 

Whether  my  scenes  and  sentiments  agreed  with  truth  and  nature. 

I  never  took  them  by  surprise,  to  storm  their  understandings 

With  Meranons  and  Zydides's  and  idle  rattle-trajipings 

Of  battle-steeds  and  clattering  shields,  to  scare  them  from  their  senses. 

But  for  a  test  (perhaps  the  best)  our  pupils  and  adherents 

May  be  distinguished  instantly  by  person  and  behavior ; 

His  are  Pharmisius  the  rough,  Meganetes  the  gloomy, 

Hobgoblin-headed,  trumpet-mouthed,  grim-visaged,  ugly-bearded ; 

But  mine  are  Cleitophon  the  smooth,  Theromenes  the  gentle. 


Theromenes!  a  clever  hand,  an  universal  genius; 

I  never  found  him  at  a  loss,  in  all  the  turns  of  party, 

To  change  his  watch-word  at  a  word,  or  at  a  moment's  warning. 


Thus  it  was  that  I  began 

With  a  nicer,  neater  plan  ; 

Teaching  men  to  look  about, 

Both  within  doors  and  without ; 

To  direct  their  own  affairs 

And  their  house  and  household  wares ; 

i\Iarking  every  thing  amiss — 

••  Where  is  that  1  and  What  is  thisl 

This  is  broken — That  is  gone ;" — 

Tis  the  system  and  the  tone. 

EACcncs. 

Yes,  by  Jove !  and  now  we  see 
Citizens  of  each  degree, 


A    LITEKAKY    LIFE.  487 

That  the  moment  they  come  in 
Raise  an  uproar  and  a  din, 
Rating  all  the  servants  round : 
"  If  it's  lost  it  must  be  found. 
Why  was  all  the  garlic  wasted  1 
There  that  honey  has  been  tasted ; 
And  these  olives  pilfered  here. 
Where's  the  pot  we  bought  last  year? 
What's  become  of  all  the  fish '? 
Which  of  you  has  broke  the  dish  V 
Thus  it  is ;  but  heretofore 
They  sat  them  down  to  doze  and  snore. 

Nothing  is  more  remarkable  in  this  scene  than  the  skill  with 
which  the  poet  has  made  Euripides,  all  along  the  chief  object  of 
his  satire,  expose  his  own  faults  in  the  very  speeches  in  which  he 
affects  to  magnify  his  merits.  The  translation  is  far  above  my 
praise,  but  as  a  Avoman  privileged  to  avow  her  want  of  learning, 
it  may  be  permitted  to  express  the  gratitude  which  the  whole 
sex  owes  to  the  late  illustrious  scholar,  who  has  enabled  us  to 
penetrate  to  the  heart  of  one  of  the  scholar's  deepest  mysteries  ; 
and  to  become  acquainted  with  something  more  than  the  name 
of  Aristophanes. 


488  RKCO  LI.ECT]  OXS    OF 


XXXVII. 

AUTHORS  ASSOCIATED  WITH  PLACES. 

LORD  CLARENDON GEOFFREY  CHAUCER JOHN  HUGHES. 

Of  all  places  connected  with  the  great  civil  war,  none  retains 
traces  more  evident  and  complete  of  its  ravages  than  the  beauti- 
ful district  which  a  tolerable  pedestrian  may  traverse  in  a  morn- 
ing walk,  and  which  comprises  the  site  of  the  two  battles  of 
Newbury,  and  the  ruins  of  Donnington  Castle,  one  of  the  most 
memorable  sieges  of  the  Parliamentary  army. 

I  went  over  that  most  interesting  ground  (not,  however,  on 
foot)  on  one  of  the  most  brilliant  days  of  the  last  brilliant  autumn, 
with  the  very  companion  for  such  an  excursion  :  one  who  has 
shown  in  his  "  Boscobel"  how  well  he  can  write  the  most  careful 
and  accurate  historical  research  with  the  rarer  power  which 
holds  attention  fixed  upon  the  page  ;  and  who,  possessing  himself 
a  fine  old  mansion  at  the  foot  of  the  Castle  Hill,  and  having  a 
good  deal  of  the  old  cavalier  feeling  in  his  own  character,  takes 
an  interest  almost  personal  in  the  events  and  the  places  of  the 
story. 

The  first  of  these  engagements  took  place,  according  to  Clar- 
endon, on  the  18th  of  September,  1643,  and  has  been  most 
minutely  related  by  cotemporary  writers,  the  noble  historian  of 
the  Rebellion,  Oldwison,  Heath,  the  anonymous  author  of  "  The 
Memoirs  of  Lord  Essex,"  and  many  others,  varying  as  to  certain 
points,  according  to  their  party  predilections,  but  agreeing  in  the 
main.      A  very  brief  summary  must  answer  my  purpose. 

Charles  commanded  the  Royalists  in  person,  while  the  Parlia- 
mentary forces  were  led  by  Essex,  the  King's  object  being  to  in- 
tercept the  enemy,  and  prevent  his  reaching  London.  The 
common,  then  and  now  called  "  The  Wash,"  was,  together  with 
the  neighboring  lanes,  the  principal  scene  of  the  combat.  The 
line  of  wood  has  been  in  some  measure  altered,  still  sufficient 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  -189 

indications  remain  to  localize  the  several  incidents  of  this  hotly- 
contested  field.  Essex,  assailed  on  his  march  from  Huiigerford 
by  the  fiery  Rupert  the  evening  before,  encamped  on  the  open 
common,  "  impatient,"  as  one  of  the  Commonwealth  narrators 
says,  "of  the  sloth  of  darkness,"  all  the  more  so  that  the  King  is 
said  to  have  sent  the  Earl  a  challenge  to  give  battle  the  next  day. 
On  that  day  the  great  battle  took  place,  when  the  valor  of  the 
raw  and  undisciplined  train-bands,  the  citizen-soldiers,  so  much 
despised  by  the  cavaliers,  withstood  the  chivalry  of  the  royal 
army,  and  enabled  the  general,  although  hotly  pursued  for  sev- 
ei"al  miles,  and  furiously  charged  by  Prince  Rupert,  Avho  had 
three  horses  killed  under  him  that  day,  to  accomplish  his  object, 
and  conduct  his  troops  to  London. 

Essex,  previous  to  his  advance  toward  Reading,  sent  a  "  ticket" 
to  Mr.  Falke,  the  minister  of  Enbornc  parish,  commanding  him 
to  bury  all  the  dead  on  either  side  ;  and  three  huge  mounds  still 
attest  the  compliance  of  the  clergyman  with  an  order  worthy  of 
a  Christian  soldier.  His  Majesty,  hearing  of  the  "  pious  wish" 
of  the  Lord-(xeneral,  issued  his  warrant  to  the  Mayor  of  Newbury 
for  the  recoverv  of  the  wounded.  Rival  historians  differ  as  to  the 
number  of  the  killed.  But  it  seems  certain  that  the  loss  of  the 
Parliamentarians  amounted  to  more  than  five  hundred  ;  and  that 
on  the  King's  part  not  fewer  than  a  thousand  were  wounded  and 
slain.  Among  them  fell  many  distinguished  loyalists — above  all, 
the  young,  the  accomplished,  the  admirable  Lord  Falkland,  he 
who,  for  talent  and  virtue,  might  be  called  the  Hampden  of  his 
party,  and  who,  like  Hampden,  left  no  equal  behind. 

The  night  before  the  battle  he  had  slept  at  the  house  of  Mr. 
Head,  whom  my  companion  (a  man  of  ancient  family  and  higli 
connections)  was  proud  to  claim  among  his  ancestry  ;  and  tradi- 
tion says,  that  being  convinced  that  an  engagement  the  next  day 
was  inevitable,  and  being  strongly  impressed  with  the  presenti- 
ment that  it  would  prove  fatal  to  himself,  he  determined,  in  order 
to  be  fully  prepared  for  the  event,  to  receive  the  sacrament.  Ac- 
cgrdingly,  very  early  on  the  morning  of  the  battle  it  was  admin- 
istered to  him  by  the  clergyman  of  Newbury,  and  Mr.  Head,  and 
the  whole  family,  by  Lord  Falkland's  particular  wish,  were  pres- 
ent. It  is  also  related  that  his  corpse,  a  few  hours  afterward, 
was  brought  slung  on  a  horse,  and  deposited  in  the  Town  Hall, 
from  whence  it  was  subsequently  removed  for  interment. 


•i90  H  f:  c  o  I ,  I  -  E  c  r  i  o  n  s   o  f 

JSuch  slrouii;  iniprcssions  of  coming  dealli  were  not  uncommon 
ill  that  ape  to  men  of  imaginative  temperament.  But  it  ia  not 
imjnobablo  that  Lord  Falkland,  in  that  hour  of  danger,  remem- 
bered a  prediction  which  had  come  across  him  strangely  not  many 
years  beibre,  and  which  is  thus  related  : 

'■  \A'hile  he  was  with  the  King  at  Oxford,  his  Majesty  went 
one  day  to  see  the  library,  where  he  was  showed,  among  other 
books,  a  '  Virgil,'  nobly  printed  and  exquisitely  bound.  The  Lord 
Falkland,  to  divert  the  King,  would  have  his  Majesty  make  a 
trial  of  the  fortes  VirgliarBe,  a  usual  kind  of  divination  in  ages 
past,  made  by  opening  a  '  Virgil.'  The  King,  opening  the  book, 
the  passage  which  happened  to  come  up  was  that  part  of  Dido's 
imprecation  against  iEneas,  IV.  615,  lVc,  which  is  thus  trans- 
lated by  Dryden  : 

" '  Oppressed  with  numbers  in  the  unei|nal  field, 
His  men  discouraged,  and  himself  dispelled, 
Let  him  for  succor  sue  from  i)lace  to  })lace. 
Torn  from  his  subjects,  and  liis  son's  embrace.' 

"  King  Charles  seeming  concerned  at  this  accident,  the  Lord 
Falkland,  who  observed  it,  would  likewise  try  his  own  fortune  in 
the  same  manner,  hoping  that  he  might  fall  upon  some  passage 
that  could  have  no  relation  to  his  case,  and  thereby  divert  the 
King's  thoughts  from  any  impression  the  other  might  make  upon 
him  ;  but  the  place  Lord  Falkland  stumbled  upon  was  yet  more 
suited  to  his  destiny  than  the  other  had  been  to  the  King's,  being 
the  following  expressions  of  Evender  upon  the  untimely  death  of 
his  son,  Pallas,  ^En.  XL  152  : 

"'0  Pallas!  thou  hast  failed  thy  plighted  word! 
To  fight  with  caution,  not  to  tempt  the  sword, 
I  w-arned  thee,  but  in  vain  ;    for  well  I  knew 
What  perils  youthful  ardor  would  pursue ; 
That  boiling  blood  would  carry  thee  too  far, 
Young  as  thou  wert  in  dangers,  raw  to  war. 
0  curst  essay  of  arms  !  disastrous  doom  ! 
Prelude  of  bloody  fields  and  fights  to  come !'  " 

Charles  was  notoriously  superstitious  ;  and  we  may  well  im- 
agine, that  besides  the  grief  of  losing  the  noble  adherent,  whose 
very  presence  conferred  honor  and  dignity  on  his  levee,  a  strong 
personal  feeling  must  have  pressed  upon  him  as  he  recollected 


A    LITEKAKY     LIFE.  491 

the  double  prophecy,  one  halt'  of  which  had  been  so  fatally 
fulfilled. 

I  could  not  choose  a  better  specimen  of  Clarendon,  that  great 
master  of  historical  portrait-painting,  than  his  character  of  Lord 
Falkland.  The  writer  who  so  immortalizes  another,  gains  im-, 
mortality  himself: 

"  In  this  unhappy  battle  was  slain  the  Lord  Viscount  Falkland, 
a  person  of  such  prodigious  parts  of  learning  and  knowledge,  of 
that  inimitable  sweetness  and  delight  in  conversation,  of  so  flow- 
ing and  obliging  a  humanity  and  goodness  to  mankind,  and  of 
that  primitive  simplicity  and  integrity  of  liie,  that  if  there  were 
no  other  brand  upon  this  odious  and  accursed  civil  war  than 
that  single  loss  is,  it  must  be  most  infamous  and  accursed  to  all 
posterity. 

"  Before  his  parliament,  his  condition  of  life  was  so  happy  that 
it  was  hardly  capable  of  improvement.  Before  he  came  to  twenty 
years  of  age  he  was  master  of  a  noble  fortune,  which  descended  to 
him  by  the  gift  of  a  grandfather.  His  education  for  some  years  hatl 
been  in  Ireland,  where  his  father  was  Lord-Deputy  ;  so  that  when 
he  returned  into  England,  to  the  possession  of  his  fortune,  he  was 
unentangled  with  any  acquaintance  or  friends,  Avhich  usually 
grow  up  by  the  custom  of  conversation,  and  therelbre  was  to  make 
a  pure  election  of  his  company,  which  he  chose  by  other  rules 
than  were  prescribed  to  the  young  nobility  of  that  time.  And  it 
can  not  be  denied,  though  he  admitted  some  tew  to  his  friendship, 
for  the  agreeableness  of  their  manners  and  their  undoubted  aflec- 
tion  to  hiin,  that  his  familiarity  and  friendship,  tor  the  most  part, 
was  with  men  of  the  most  eminent  and  sublime  parts,  and  of  un- 
touched reputation  in  point  of  integrity,  and  .«uch  men  iiad  a  title 
to  his  bosom. 

"  He  was  a  great  cherisher  of  wit,  and  fancy,  and  good  parts  in 
any  man  ;  and  if  he  found  them  clouded  with  poverty  or  want,  a 
most  liberal  and  bountiful  patron  toward  them,  even  above  liis 
fortune  ;  of  which  in  those  administrations  lie  was  such  a  di.spcn- 
eer  as  if  he  had  been  trusted  with  it  to  such  uses ;  and  if  there 
had  been  the  least  of  vice  in  his  expense,  ho  might  have  been 
thought  too  prodigal.  He  was  constant  and  pertinacious  in 
whatsoever  he  resolved  to  do,  and  not  to  be  wearied  l)y  any  jiains 
that  were  necessary  to  that  end  ;  and  therelbre  having  once  re- 
solved not  to  see  London,  which  he  loved  above  all  other  places, 


492  kkcollp:ctions   of 

till  he  had  pi-vfectly  learned  the  Greek  tongue,  he  went  to  his 
(iwiv  house  in  the  country,  and  pursued  it  with  that  indefatigable 
industry,  lliat  it  will  not  be  believed  in  how  short  a  time  he  was 
master  of  it,  and  had  accurately  read  all  the  Ureek  historians. 

'•  In  this  time  his  house  being  within  little  more  than  ten 
miles  of  Oxford,  he  contracted  familiarity  and  friendship  with  the 
most  polite  and  accurate  men  of  that  University,  who  found  such 
an  immenseness  of  wit,  and  such  a  solidity  of  judgment  in  him, 
so  infinite  a  fancy,  bound  in  by  a  most  logical  ratiocination,  such 
a  vast  knowledge,  that  he  was  not  ignorant  in  any  thing,  yet 
such  an  excessive  humility  as  if  he  had  known  nothing,  that  they 
frequently  resided  and  dwelt  with  him,  as  in  a  college,  situated 
in  a  purer  air ;  so  that  his  house  was  a  University  in  a  less 
volume,  to  which  they  came  not  so  much  for  repose  as  for  study, 
and  to  examine  and  reform  those  grosser  propositions,  which  lazi- 
ness and  consent  made  current  in  vulgar  conversation. 


"  He  was  superior  to  all  those  passions  and  aflections  which  at- 
tend vulgar  minds,  and  was  guilty  of  no  other  ambition  than  of 
knowledge  and  to  be  reputed  a  lover  of  all  good  men  ;  and  that 
made  him  too  much  a  contemner  of  those  acts  which  must  be  in- 
dulged in  the  transactions  of  human  affairs.  In  the  last  short 
parliament  he  was  a  burgess  in  the  House  of  Commons.  *  *  * 
The  great  opinion  he  had  of  the  uprightness  and  integrity  of  those 
persons  who  appeared  most  active,  especially  of  Mr.  Hampden, 
kept  him  longer  from  suspecting  any  design  against  the  peace  of 
the  kingdom  ;  and  though  he  differed  from  them  commonly  in 
conclusions,  he  believed  long  their  purposes  were  honest.  When 
he  grew  better  informed  what  was  law,  and  discerned  in  them  a 
desire  to  control  that  law  by  a  vote  of  one  or  both  Houses,  no  man 
more  opposed  their  attempts,  or  gave  the  adverse  party  more 
trouble  by  reason  and  argumentation  ;  in  so  much  that  he  was 
by  degrees  looked  upon  as  an  advocate  for  the  Court ;  to  which  he 
contributed  so  little  that  he  declined  more  addresses  and  even 
those  invitations  which  he  was  obliged  almost  by  civility  to  en- 
tertain. And  he  was  so  jealous  of  the  least  imagination  that  he 
should  incline  to  preferment,  that  he  affected  even  a  moroseness 
to  the  Court  and  to  the  courtiers,  and  left  nothinjr  undone  which 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  493 

might  prevent  and  divert  the  King's  or  Queen's  favor  to  him  but 
the  deserviner  it. 


"  He  had  a  courage  of  the  most  clear  and  keen  temper,  and  so 
far  from  fear  that  he  seemed  not  without  some  appetite  of  dan- 
ger ;  and  therefore  upon  an  occasion  of  action  he  always  engaged 
his  person  in  those  troops  which  he  thought,  by  the  forwardness 
of  the  commanders,  to  be  most  like  to  be  farthest  engaged  ;  and 
in  all  such  encounters  he  had  about  him  an  extraordinary  cheer- 
fulness, without  at  all  affecting  the  execution  that  usually  attend- 
ed them  ;  in  which  he  took  no  delight,  but  took  pains  to  prevent 
it  when  it  was  not  by  resistance  made  necessary  ;  insomuch  that 
at  Edge  Hill,  when  the  enemy  was  routed,  he  was  like  to  have 
incurred  great  peril,  by  interposing  to  save  those  who  had  thrown 
away  their  arms,  and  against  whom,  it  may  be,  others  were  more 
fierce  for  their  having  thrown  them  away  ;  so  that  a  man  might 
think  he  came  into  the  field  chiefly  out  of  curiosity  to  see  the  face 
of  danger,  and  to  prevent  the  shedding  of  blood.  Yet  in  his 
natural  inclination  he  acknowledged  he  was  addicted  to  the  pro- 
fession of  a  soldier  ;  and  shortly  after  he  came  to  his  fortune,  be- 
fore he  was  of  age,  he  went  into  the  Low  Countries  with  a  reso- 
lution of  procuring  command  to  give  himself  up  to  it ;  from  which 
he  was  diverted  by  the  complete  inactivity  of  that  summer ;  so 
he  returned  again  into  England,  and  shortly  after  entered  upon 
that  vehement  course  of  study  we  mentioned  before,  till  the  lirst 
alarm  from  the  north  ;  then  again  he  made  ready  for  the  field, 
and  though  he  received  some  repulse  in  the  command  of  a  troop 
of  horse  of  which  he  had  a  promise,  he  went  a  volunteer  with  the 
Earl  of  Essex. 

"  From  the  entrance  into  this  unnatural  war  his  natural  viva- 
city grew  clouded,  and  a  kind  of  sadness  and  dejection  of  spirit 
stole  upon  him,  which  he  had  never  been  used  to.  *  *  *  * 
This  o-rew  into  a  perfect  habit  of  unchecrfulncss  ;  and  he  wlio 
had  been  so  exactly  easy  and  affable  to  all  men,  that  his  iace  and 
countenance  was  always  present  and  vacant  to  his  company,  and 
held  any  cloudiness  and  less  pleasantness  of  the  visage  a  kind  ol' 
moroseness  or  incivility,  became  on  a  sudden  less  comiuuiiicable  ; 
and   thence  very  red,  pale,  and   exceedingly  adecled   with   the 


4  [l[  U  K  C  U  L  I ,  K  C  r  J  O  N  S    O  K 

splooa.  Ill  his  clulhcs  ami  habit,  whioli  ho  had  minded  before 
with  more  neatness,  and  industry,  and  expense  than  is  usual  to  bo 
great  a  soul,  he  was  not  now  only  incurious  but  too  negligent ; 
and  in  his  reception  ot"  suitors  and  the  necessary  or  casual  address- 
es to  his  place,  so  quick,  and  sharp,  and  severe,  that  there  wanted 
not  some  men — strangers  to  his  name  and  disposition — who  be- 
lieved him  proud  and  imperious,  from  which  no  mortal  man  was 
ever  more  free. 


"  When  there  was  any  overture  or  hope  of  peace  he  would  be 
more  easy  and  vigorous,  and  exceedingly  solicitous  to  press  any 
thing  which  he  thought  might  promote  it ;  and  sitting  among  his 
Iriends  often  after  a  deep  silence  and  frequent  sighs,  would,  with 
a  shrill  and  sad  accent,  ingerminate  the  word  '  Peace  I  Peace  I' 
and  would  passionately  profess  that  the  very  agony  of  the  war, 
and  the  calamities  and  desolation  of  the  kingdom  did  and  must 
endure,  took  his  sleep  from  him,  and  would  shortly  break  his 
heart  I 


"  In  the  morning  before  the  battle,  as  always  upon  action  he 
was  very  cheerful,  and  put  himself  into  the  first  ranks  of  the  Lord 
Byron's  regiment,  then  advancing  upon  the  enemy,  who  had 
lined  the  hedges  on  both  sides  with  musketeers,  from  whence  he 
was  shot  with  a  musket,  and  in  the  instant  fell  from  his  horse. 
*  *  *  Thus  died  that  incomparable  young  man,  in  the  four- 
and-thirtieth  year  of  his  age,  having  so  much  dispatched  the  true 
business  of  life,  that  the  eldest  rarely  attain  to  that  immense 
knowledge,  and  the  youngest  enter  not  into  the  world  with  more 
innocency  :  whosoever  leads  such  a  life  needs  be  the  less  anxious 
upon  how  short  warning  it  is  taken  from  him." 

I  had  thought  to  insert,  as  a  companion  picture,  Lord  Claren- 
don's character  of  Hampden,  but  I  find,  on  reference,  that  it  does 
less  justice  to  its  subject  and  to  its  author.     Such  is  party  spirit  I 

The  second  battle  of  Newbury  was  fought  about  a  twelve- 
month after,  the  King  having  come  to  relieve  Donnington  Castle, 
and  being  suddenly  attacked  by  Waller  while  at  Mr.  Dolemna's 
house  at  Shaw. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  495 

I  can  not  attempt  more  than  a  brief  description  of  the  princi- 
pal scene  of  action. 

Shaw  House  is  a  stately  specimen  of  Tudor  architecture,  with 
bay  windows,  porch  and  pinnacles,  surrounded  by  magnificent 
trees,  many  of  which  must  have  been  in  existence  two  centui'ies 
ago,  the  clear  bright  stream  of  the  Lamborne — that  Lamborne 
which  a  thousand  of  the  train-bands  forded  the  morning  of  the 
combat — flowing  peacefully  through  the  park,  and  the  intrench- 
ments  thrown  up  for  the  defense  of  the  mansion,  now  forming 
the  turfy  boundaries  of  a  bright  flower-garden  and  a  velvet  bowl- 
ing-green. A  brass  plate  near  an  upper  window  now  overhang- 
ing the  brilliant  beds  of  scarlet  geraniums  and  golden  calceolaria, 
marks  the  place  where  a  cannon-ball  lodged,  fired  at  the  King  as 
he  was  shaving  in  his  chamber,  and  various  other  reliques  of 
sharp  attack  and  desperate  resistance,  are  carefully  preserved  in 
the  house,  the  condition  of  which,  so  perfect  in  its  venerable  an- 
tiquity, free  alike  from  any  symptom  of  decay  or  any  token  of 
modern  renovation,  does  the  highest  honor  to  Mr.  Eyre,  the  pres- 
ent possessor.  It  would  be  difficult  to  point  to  a  spot  that  ap- 
peals more  forcibly  to  the  imagination,  or  is  more  fitted  to  be  the 
scene  of  stirring  deeds.  Just  so  it  might  have  looked  when  the 
forces  of  Waller  appeared  before  it,  and  the  train-bands,  no 
longer  the  scofled-at  holyday  soldiers,  waded  through  the  stream. 

No  great  result  followed  :  the  King  with  Prince  Charles,  then 
a  boy,  maintaining  his  ground  through  the  day,  and  retreating 
toward  Oxford  during  the  following  night,  but  the  general  effect, 
as  through  the  whole  contest,  was  disastrous  to  his  cause.  Crom- 
well (for,  that  no  association  may  be  wanting,  that  great  name 
appears  on  this  occasion)  accused  Manchester  in  the  Commons 
of  having  suffered  the  royal  army  to  escape  through  cowardice 
and  lukewarmness,  adding  that  he  himself  went  to  him  and 
sliowed  how  they  might  be  defeated,  and  "  desired  him  if  he 
wouhl  give  him  leave  with  his  own  brigade  of  horse  to  charge 
Ihc  King's  army  in  their  retreat,  and  the  earl,  with  the  rest  of  his 
army,  might  look  on  if  he  thought  fit." 

Although  the  result  on  the  side  of  the  Cavaliers  was  called  by 
their  enemies  an  escape,  and  must,  perhaps,  be  considered  as  a 
retreat,  yet  the  Royalists  could  boast,  as  usual,  many  instances  of 
individual  bravery.  Colonel  Lisle,  in  three  successi'ul  charges 
near  Shaw  House,  in   the   first  charge  "  used  for  his  field-word 


496  K  E  C  O  L  L  E  C  T  I  O  N  S     O  E 

'For  the  Crown;'  in  the  second  '  For  Prince  Charles;'  in  the 
third  '  For  the  Duke  of  York.'  Had  the  enemy  returned,  he  had 
resolved  to  have  gone  over  all  the  King's  children  until  he  had 
not  lelt  one  rebel  to  light  against  the  crown  or  the  royal  pro- 
geny." Lisle  himsell'  iuught  without  delensive  armor,  and  hav- 
ing laid  aside  his  bull'  doublet,  led  on  his  men  "  in  a  good  Hol- 
land shirt,  "  a  mode  not  uncommonly  adopted  by  the  Cavaliers 
i'or  the  purpose  of  inspiring  their  followers  with  courage  and 
evincing  their  own  contempt  of  danger. 

The  defense  of  Donnington  Castle  is  one  of  the  most  memora- 
ble stories  of  this  memorable  war.  Situate  on  an  abrupt  and 
lofty  eminence,  this  fortress,  of  which  nothing  now  remains  but 
two  towers  on  either  side  of  an  arched  gateway,  and  a  beautiful 
hall  immediately  behind  the  entrance,  was  of  considerable  im- 
portance as  commanding  the  main  roads  between  London  and  the 
AVest  frequently  traversed  by  the  Parliamentarians,  and  the  road 
between  Oxford  and  Wallingford,  the  royal  strongholds. 

A  small  garrison  was  thrown  into  it  by  the  King,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  contest  ;  and  although  besieged  with  more  or 
less  activity  to  the  end,  Colonel  Boys  contrived  to  maintain  the 
place  till  the  ver}'  last,  only  surrendering  it  when  every  other 
fortress  had  yielded  and  all  hope  was  lost.  At  one  time  Colonel 
Horton,  after  a  long  blockade,  battered  it  with  cannon  for  twelve 
days,  beating  down  three  towers  and  a  part  of  the  w^all.  He 
then  summoned  the  Governor  in  form,  offering  quarter  if  the 
place  were  given  up  by  twelve  o'clock  the  next  day.  Boys 
treated  this  summons  as  he  had  done  all  former  ones,  with  con- 
tempt, and  returned  for  answer  that  he  would  neither  give  nor 
receive  quarter.  The  assaults  of  the  besiegers  were  generally 
followed  by  sallies  and  skirmishes,  and  endeavors  to  take  the 
place  by  sap  were  equally  unsuccessful.  A  field  near  the  Castle 
is  still  called  Dalbier's  Meadow,  in  remembrance  of  one  of  the 
Parliamentary  leaders  who  established  a  battery  there ;  Fairfax 
himself  was  among  the  besiegers  ;  and  the  day  after  the  second 
battle  of  Newbury,  the  whole  army  appeared  before  the  Castle, 
and  summoned  the  Governor  and  his  garrison  to  surrender  it  to 
them,  or  they  would  not  leave  one  stone  upon  another ;  to  which 
Sir  John  Boys  (having  no  other  means  of  reward,  Charles  ap- 
pears to  have  knighted  this  brave  soldier)  returned  this  laconic 
and  spirited  answer :    "  That  he  was   not  bound  to  repair  the 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  497 

Castle,  but,  by  God's  help,  he  would  keep  the  ground  after- 
ward." 

The  siege  however,  with  all  its  glories,  forms  but  a  part  of  the 
gloiy  of  Donnington.  It  is  said  upon  evidence  which  appears  in- 
contestable that  the  father  of  English  poetry,  almost  of  the  Eng- 
lish language,  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  once  gazed  from  this  fair  hill 
and  inhabited  these  massive  towers.  Godwin,  who  certainly 
spared  no  pains  in  the  investigation,  and  a  host  of  biographers  and 
antiquaries,  assume  it  as  an  undoubted  fact ;  and  local  tradition, 
no  mean  authority  in  local  questions,  comes  in  aid  of  their  asser- 
tion. A  noble  grove  of  oaks  about  half-way  down  the  hill  has 
always  borne  the  name  of  Chaucer's  Grove,  and  "  Chaucer's  Head" 
served  as  the  sign  of  an  old  public-house  which  existed  during  the 
present  century. 

The  scene  is  worthy  of  the  poet.  The  old  Castle  stands  on  the 
brow  of  a  lofty  eminence,  whose  picturesque  abruptness  may  in 
some  places  perhaps  have  been  assisted  by  art,  as  the  steepness 
of  the  hill  must  have  formed  the  chief  defense  of  the  fortress.  But 
nature  has  long  resumed  her  rights.  The  precipitous  ascent  is 
everywhere  carpeted  with  turf  of  the  richest  verdure,  garlanded 
with  hawthorn  and  trailing  plants,  and  interspersed  with  forest 
trees  of  the  noblest  growth.  The  outer  wall  of  the  Castle,  in- 
closing the  whole  table-land  of  the  hill-top,  leveled  with  the 
earth  in  many  places  and  ruinous  in  all,  have  been  taken  down 
and  replaced  by  a  lower  fence  composed  of  the  original  stones  and 
clothed  with  evergreens  surrounding  a  tasteful  flower-garden. 
The  towers  too,  although  still  bearing  visible  marks  of  the  rava- 
ges of  war,  have  been  repaired  and  wreathed  with  ivy,  and  the 
care  taken  of  this  venerable  ruin  is  most  honorable  to  Mrs.  Hart- 
ley in  whose  family  it  has  long  been.  One  of  the  towers  contain- 
ing a  geometrical  staircase  had  its  walls  torn  asunder,  exposing 
the  steep  stone  steps,  although  of  such  massive  strength  that  it 
seems  like  rending  a  solid  rock.  The  other,  less  injured  by  the 
besieging  army,  is  pierced  with  loop-holes,  mere  slits  on  the  outer 
side  but  gradually  widening  within  ;  and  there  no  doubt  has  stood 
many  a  marksman,  matchlock  in  hand,  picking  ofT  the  Round- 
heads in  the  valley  below. 

These  towers  with  their  battlements,  and  the  strong-erected  en- 
trance with  the  marks  of  the  portcullis  still  visible  and  a  basket 
of  shot  picked  up  about  the  place  standing  within  the  gate,  speak 


4i»8  KKCUL  LECTIONS    OF 

ol"  little  but  war  ill  its  sttTucst  form  ;  but  the  little  hall,  with  its 
beautiful  groined  roof,  ami  a  certain  mixture  of  rude  splendor  and 
iiomely  comfort,  which  make  it  even  now  a  most  covetable  apart- 
ment, tell  of  the  genial  poet  whose  healthy,  cordial,  hearty  spirit 
must  have  made  him  the  delight  of  every  board,  and  most  es- 
pecially of  his  own. 

I  was  much  tempted  to  extract  some  passage  in  harmony  with 
ihis  feeling  ;  some  bright  and  life-like  porti'ait  from  the  description 
of  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims,  or  that  inimitable  character  of  the 
Good  Parson,  which  among  its  innumerable  merits  has  none 
higher  than  the  proof  it  afibrds  of  Chaucer's  own  love  of  piety  and 
virtue.  But  these  fine  fragments  are  too  well  known.  I  subjoin 
(taking  no  other  freedom  than  that  of  changing  the  orthography) 
one  of  my  own  favorite  bits,  less  familiar  probably  to  the  general 
reader,  but  full  as  it  seems  to  me  of  tenderness,  pathos  and  truth. 

Eustance  and  her  infant  are  banished  by  her  husband,  and 
sent  adrift  in  a  vessel. 

Weepen  both  j'oung  and  old  in  all  that  place. 
When  that  the  King  this  cursed  letter  sent : 
And  Eustance  with  a  deadly  pale  face. 
The  fourthe  day  toward  the  ship  she  went; 
But  natheless  she  tak'th  in  good  intent 
The  will  of  Christ,  and  kneeling  on  the  strand 
She  saide :  "'  Lord,  aye  welcome  be  thy  sand. 

He  that  me  kepte  from  the  false  blame 

While  I  was  in  the  land  amonges  you, 

He  can  me  keep  from  harm  and  else  from  shame 

In  the  salt  sea,  although  I  see  not  how ; 

As  strong  as  ever  he  was,  he  is  yet  now 

In  him  trust  I,  and  in  his  Mother  dear 

That  is  to  me  my  sail  and  eke  my  steer." 

Her  little  child  lay  weeping  in  her  arm, 
And  kneeling,  piteously  to  him  she  said — 
"  Peace,  little  son,  I  will  do  thee  no  harm." 
With  that,  her  kerchief  off  her  head  she  braid, 
And  over  his  little  eyen  she  it  laid, 
And  in  her  arm  she  lulleth  it  full  fast. 
And  into  th'  Heaven  her  eyen  up  she  cast. 

'Mother,'  quod  she,  'and  maiden  bright  Mary! 

Soth  is  that  thorough  woman's 

Mankind  was  born,  and  damned  aye  to  die, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE,  499 

For  which  thy  child  was  on  a  cross  yrest ; 
Thy  blissful  eyen  saw  all  his 
Then  is  there  no  comparison  between 
Thy  woe,  and  any  woe  men  may  sustain. 

Thou  saw'st  thy  child  yslain  before  thine  eyen, 
And  yet  now  liv'th  my  little  child  perfay : 
Now,  lady  bright !  to  whom  all  woful  dyen, 
Thou  glory  of  womanhood,  thou  faire  May  ! 
Thou  haven  of  refute,  bright  star  of  day  ! 
Rue  on  my  child,  that  of  thy  gentleness 
Ruest  on  every  rueful  in  distress. 

'  0  little  child ;  alas !  what  is  thy  guilt 
That  never  wroughtest  sin  as  yet,  perdie  1 
Why  will  thy  harde  father  have  thee  spilt  1 
0  mercy,  deare  Constable  !'  quod  she, 
'  As  let  my  little  child  dwell  here  with  thee ; 
And  if  thou  dar'st  not  him  from  blame 

So  kiss  him  one's  in  his  father's  name.' 

Therewith  she  looketh  backward  to  the  eand 
And  saide,  '  Farewell,  husband  ruthless  !' 
And  up  she  ran  and  walketh  down  the  strand 
Toward  the  ship ;  her  followeth  all  the  press. 
And  ever  she  prayeth  her  son  to  hold  his  peace, 
And  tak'th  her  leave,  and  with  a  holy  intent 
She  blesseth  her,  and  into  the  ship  she  went. 

Victailled  was  the  ship,  it  is  no  drede 
Abundantly  for  her  a  full  long  space ; 
And  other  necessaries  that  should  need 
She  had  enow,  be  Godde's  grace  : 

For  wind  and  weather.  Almighty  God, 
And  bring  her  home  !     I  can  no  better  say, — 
But  in  the  sea  she  driveth  forth  her  way. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  both  the  poet  and  his  heroine 
were  Roman  Catholics,  and  that  a  Roman  Catholic  mother 
would  naturally  pray  to  the  Virgin  ibr  her  child. 

I  could  not  help  wondering,  as  my  kind  host  and  1  stood  to- 
gether under  that  groined  roof,  whether  any  of  the  monks  of 
Chaucer's  day — for  in  Chaucer's  time  there  was  an  ecclesiastical 
establishment  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  on  whose  foundation  in- 
deed, and  probably  comprising  part  of  the  walls,  the  beautiful 
mansion  called  the  Priory  now  stands  ;  I  could  not  help  wotulcr- 
ing  whether  any  of  the  monks  of  that  day  were  as  well  suited 
to  the  old  bard  as  its  present  master  would  undoubtedly  have 


,">00  RECOL  LECTIONS    UF 

proved  ;  and  from  wondering  I  got  to  wishing  that  four  centuries 
I'ould  have  been  aunihiUited,  and  GeoHrey  (Jhauccr  and  John 
Hughes  have  been  pkiced  each  in  his  own  residence  with  only 
that  beautiliil  winding  up-hill  road  between  them  ;  neighbors 
hardly  a  mile  apart.  How  they  would  have  given  each  other 
legend  for  legend,  tale  for  tale,  wisdom  for  wisdom,  song  for  song, 
jest  for  jest !  lu  his  one  great  act  Chaucer  would  of  course  have 
had  the  better — indeed  of  whom  except  of  Shakspeare  and  Mil- 
ton would  he  not  ?  But  my  friend  would  have  made  it  up  iu 
his  infinite  variety.  To  say  nothing  of  the  classical  learning  for 
which  he  has  always  been  renowned  a  scholar  among  scholars  ; 
does  he  not  write  and  talk  as  a  native  nearly  all  the  languages 
of  Europe,  all  certainly  that  have  a  literature  to  tempt  to  the 
acquirement.  Was  not  his  "  Provence  and  the  Rhone"  almost 
the  only  book  ever  praised  in  the  "  Waverley  Novels  ?"  Does  not 
he  contrive  in  his  juvenals  to  make  his  pen  do  double  duty  as 
sketcher  and  writer  ?  And  are  not  those  pen  and  ink  drawings 
of  his  something  astonishing  for  spirit  and  truth  ?  Is  he  not  also 
an  axlist  in  wood,  embroidering  his  oaken  wainscots  with  every 
quirk  and  quiddity  that  comes  into  his  head,  i'rom  a  comic  masque 
to  an  old  English  motto  ?  Is  he  not  such  a  reciter  that  he  can 
make  people  laugh  till  they  cry  with  his  fun,  and  afraid  to  go  to 
bed  with  his  ghost  stories  ?  Can  the  very  beasts  of  the  field  re- 
sist him  ?  Did  not  he  frighten  me  out  of  my  wits,  by  calling 
around  him  all  the  wild  cattle  of  Highclare  from  the  box  of  his 
own  carriage  ?  Unhappy  creatures  I  he  enchanted  them  with 
his  mimicry  till  they  took  him^  for  one  of  themselves.  Is  there 
any  thing  he  can  not  do  ?  that  is  the  fitter  question.  Can  not  he, 
if  he  heard  a  German  soldier  in  a  barrack-yard  singing  an  old 
song  while  polishing  his  musket,  note  down  the  air,  retain  the 
words,  put  them  into  English  verse,  adapted  to  the  tune,  and 
sing  it  as  heartily  as  the  soldier  could  have  done  for  the  life  of 
him  ?  Did  he  not  do  so  by  the  ballad  of  "  Prince  Eugene,"  said 
to  have  been  composed,  words  and  air,  by  one  of  the  Prince's 
old  troopers,  and  long  as  popular  in  the  German  army  as  "  Tom 
Bowline"  or  "  Tom  Tough"  among  the  British  tars.  Here  is 
Mr.  Hughes's  version  : 

Prince  Eugene,  our  noble  leader, 
Made  a  vow  in  death  to  bleed,  or 

Win  the  Emperor  back  Belgrade :  ^ 


A    LITEKARY    LIFE.  501 

"  Lanch  pontoons,  let  all  be  ready 
To  bear  our  ordnance  safe  and  steadj- 
Over  the  Danube" — thus  he  said. 

There  was  mustering  on  the  border 
When  our  bridge  in  marching  order 

Breasted  first  the  roaring  stream : 
Then  at  Sembin,  vengeance  breathing, 
We  encamped  to  scourge  the  heathen 

Back  to  Mahood  and  fame  redeem. 

'Twas  on  August  one  and  twenty, 
Scouts  with  glorious  tidings  plenty 

Galloped  in  through  storm  and  rain; 
Turks  they  swore  three  hundred  thousand 
Marched  to  give  our  Prince  a  rouse,  and 

Dared  us  forth  to  battle-plain. 

Then  at  Prince  Eugene's  head-quarters 
That  our  fine  old  fighting  Tartars, 

(Jenerals  and  Field-Marshals  all ; 
Every  point  of  war  debated, 
Each  in  his  turn  the  signal  waited 

Forth  to  march  and  on  to  fall. 

For  the  onslaught  all  were  eager 

When  the  word  sped  round  our  leagrier : 

"  Soon  as  the  clock  chimes  twelve  to-night 
Then  bold  hearts  sound  boot  and  saddle, 
Stand  to  your  arms  and  on  to  battle. 

Every  one  that  has  hands  to  fight !" 

Musqueteers,  horse,  yagers,  forming 
Sword  in  hand  each  bosom  warming, 

Still  as  death  we  all  advance ; 
Each  prepared  come  blows  or  booty 
German-like  to  do  our  duty, 

Joining  hands  in  the  gallant  dance. 

Our  cannoneers,  those  tough  old  heroes 
Struck  a  lusty  peal  to  cheer  us. 

Firing  ordnance  great  and  small ; 
Right  and  left  our  cannon  thundered 
Till  the  Pagans  quaked  and  wondered 

And  by  platoons  began  to  fall. 

On  the  right  like  a  lion  angered 
Bold  Eugene  cheered  on  the  vanguard ; 
Ludovic  spurred  up  and  down, 


502  UECOh LECTIONS    OF 

Crying,  '  Ou,  boys,  every  liaiid  to't, 
Brother  Germans,  nobly  stand  tot, 

Charge  theiu  lionic  for  our  old  renown  !" 

Gallant  Prince,  he  spoke  no  more ;  he 
Fell  in  early  youth  and  glory 

Struck  from  his  horse  by  some  curst  ball : 
Great  Eugene  long  sorrowed  o'er  him. 
For  a  brother's  love  he  bore  him, 

Every  soldier  mourned  his  fall. 

In  Waradin  wc  laid  liis  ashes ; 
Cannon  peals  and  musket  flashes 

O'er  his  grave  due  honors  paid : 
Then  the  old  Black  Eagle  flying 
All  the  Pagan  powers  defying 

On  we  marched  and  stormed  Belgi'ade. 


Mr.  Hughes  was  honored  with  the  friendship  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  and  among  the  most  valued  treasures  of  the  Priory  is  the 
last  portrait  ever  taken  of  the  great  novelist. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  503 


XXXVIII. 

UNEECOGNIZED    POETS. 

GEORGE    DARLEY THE    REV.    EDWARD    WILLIAM    BARNARD. 

Unhecognized  Poets  !  many,  very  many  are  there  doubtless 
of  the  world's  finest  spirits,  to  whom  these  words  may  be  truly 
applied  ;  poets  whom  the  world  has  not  known,  or  has  refused  to 
acknowledge.  If  Wordsworth  had  died  fifty  years  ago,  after  the 
"  Excursion,"  after  "  Ruth,"  after  the  "  Yew  Trees,"  after  the 
very  finest  of  his  shorter  poems  had  been  published,  lie  would 
have  been  among  the  disowned.  But  he  was  strong  of  frame 
and  of  heart,  vigorous  and  self-reliant ;  competence  came  to  him 
early  ;  moreover  he  dwelt  in  the  healthy  atmosphere  of  the  north- 
ern hills,  and  heard  no  more  of  the  critical  onslaught  than  served 
to  nerve  him  for  fresh  battles.  So  he  lived  through  the  time  of 
tribulation,  and  gathered  from  the  natural  effect  of  the  reaction 
more  of  fame  and  praise  than  would  have  fallen  to  his  share  had 
he  won  his  laurels  without  the  long  probation  and  the  fierce  con- 
test which  preceded  his  recognition  as  the  "  Great  High  Priest  of 
all  the  Nine." 

Men  of  less  power  and  of  less  faith  die  of  the  trial.  Of  such 
was  George  Darley.  Gifted  certainly  with  high  talents,  and  with 
the  love  of  song,  which  to  enthusiastic  youth  seems  the  only  real 
vocation,  he  offended  his  father,  a  wealthy  alderman  of  Dublin, 
by  devoting  his  whole  existence  to  poetry,  and  found,  when  too 
late,  that  the  fame  for  which  he  had  sacrificed  worldly  fortune 
eluded  his  pursuit.  It  is  impossible  not  to  sympathize  with  such 
a  trial ;  not  to  feel  how  severe  must  be  the  sufferings  of  a  man 
conscious  of  no  common  power,  who  sees  day  by  day  the  popu- 
larity for  which  he  yearns  won  by  far  inferior  spirits,  and  works 
which  he  despi-ses  passing  through  edition  alter  edition,  while  his 
own  writings  are  gathering  dust  upon  the  publisher's  shelves  or 


504  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

sold  as  waste  paper  to  the  pastry-cook  or  the  chandler.  What 
wonder  that  the  disenchanted  poet  should  be  transmuted  into  a 
cold  and  caustic  critic,  or  that  the  disappointed  man  should  with- 
draw into  the  narrowest  limits  of  a  friendly  society,  a  hermit  in 
the  center  of  London  I 

To  add  to  these  griefs,  Mr.  Darley  was  afflicted  by  a  natural 
infirmity  not  uncommon  with  men  of  high  talent  and  nervous 
and  susceptible  temperament.  He  stammered  so  much  as  to 
render  conversation  painful  and  difficult  to  himself,  and  distressing 
to  his  companions.  The  consciousness  of  this  impediment  (which 
he  called  "  his  mask")  increased  its  intensity,  causing  him  to 
shrink  from  all  unnecessary  communications,  except  with  the  few 
to  whom  he  was  familiarly  accustomed,  and  of  whose  apprecia- 
tion he  was  sure.     They  seem  to  have  esteemed  him  much. 

I  myself  never  saw  him.  But  I  suppose  I  owed  to  the  too 
partial  report  of  some  of  his  own  most  valued  friends  the  honor 
of  being  admitted  among  his  correspondents.  Much  as  I  admired 
him,  and  sincerely  grateful  as  I  felt  for  his  notice,  I  confess  that 
these  elaborate  epistles  frightened  me  not  a  little.  Startling  to 
receive  these  epistles,  resembling  the  choicest  part  of  the  choicest 
orations,  were  terrible  to  answer ;  and  as  my  theory  as  to  letter- 
writing  is,  that  it  should  be  like  the  easiest,  most  careless,  most 
ofi-hand  talk,  and  my  practice  full  of  blots  and  blunders,  and 
of  every  sort  of  impertinence  that  a  pen  can  by  any  chance  com- 
mit, is  apt  to  carry  out  my  theory  even  to  excess,  I  have  no 
doubt  but  I  often  returned  the  compliment  by  startling  my  cor- 
respondent. 

Besides  these  letters,  Mr.  Darley  sent  me  a  little  volume,  called 
"  Sylvia,  or  the  May  Glueen,"  a  dramatic  pastoral  full  of  13'rical 
beauty  ;  a  tragedy  on  the  story  of  Thomas-a-Becket,  of  which  the 
most  original  scene  is  one  in  which  E-ichard  is  represented  as  a 
boy,  a  boy  foreshowing  the  man,  the  playful,  grand  and  noble 
cub,  in  which  we  see  the  future  lion  ;  and  an  unpublished  poem 
called  "  Nepenthe,"  as  different  in  appearance  from  the  common 
run  of  books  "printed  for  private  distribution,"  which  are  usually 
models  of  typography,  of  paper,  and  of  binding,  as  it  is  in  subject 
and  in  composition.  Never  was  so  thorough  an  abnegation  of 
all  literary  coxcombry  as  was  exhibited  in  the  outward  form  of 
this  "Nepenthe,"  unless  there  may  be  some  suspicion  of  affecta- 
tion in  the  remarkable  homeliness,  not  to  say  squalidness,  of  the 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  506 

strange  little  pamphlet,  as  compared  with  the  gi-ace  and  refine- 
ment of  the  poetry.  Printed  with  the  most  imperfect  and  broken 
types,  upon  a  coarse,  discolored  paper,  like  that  in  which  a 
country  shopkeeper  puts  up  his  tea,  with  two  dusky  leaves  of  a 
still  dingier  hue,  at  least  a  size  too  small  for  cover,  and  garnished 
at  top  and  bottom  with  a  running  margin  in  his  own  writing, 
such  (resembling  nothing  but  a  street  ballad  or  an  old  "  broad- 
side") is  the  singular  disguise  (ah,  Mr.  Darley  might  well  have 
called  that  a  mask  !)  of  the  striking  poem  of  which  I  am  about 
to  offer  an  extract.  There  is  no  reading  the  whole,  for  there  is 
an  intoxication  about  it  that  turns  one's  brain.  Such  a  poet  could 
never  have  been  popular.     But  he  was  a  poet. 

The  first  page  is  headed  as  follows,  in  Mr.  Barley's  hand-writ- 
ing, "  seeking  the  panacea  called  '  Nepenthe,'  the  wanderer  finds 
himself  on  the  hill  of  Solitude." 

NEPENTHE. 

Over  a  blooniy  land,  untrod 

By  heavier  foot  than  bird  or  bee 
Lays  on  the  grassy-bosomed  sod, 

I  passed  one  day  in  reverie : 
High  on  his  unpavilioned  throne 
The  heaven's  hot  tyrant  sat  alone, 
And  hke  the  fabled  king  of  old 
Was  turning  all  he  touched  to  gold; 
The  glittering  fountains  seemed  to  pour 
Steep  downward  rills  of  molten  ore, 
Glassily  trickling  smooth  between 
Brown  shaded  banks  of  golden  green. 
And  o'er  the  yellow  pasture  straying, 
Dallying  still  yet  undelaying, 
In  hasty  trips  from  side  to  side 
Footing  adown  their  steepy  slide. 
Headlong  impetuously  playing 
"With  the  flowery  border  pied, 
That  edged  the  rocky  mountain  stair, 
They  pattered  down  incessant  there, 
To  lowlands  sweet  and  calm  and  wide. 
With  golden  lip  and  glistening  bell 
Bowed  every  bee-cup  on  the  fell, 
Whate'cr  its  native  unsunned  hue, 
Snow-white,  or  crimson,  or  cold  blue; 
Even  the  black  loches  of  the  sloe 
Glanced  as  they  sided  to  the  glow, 
Y 


506  11  E  C  O  I.  r.  E  C  T I  O  N  S    OF 

And  furz.  in  russet  frock  arrayed 
With  sallVon  knot,  like  shepherd  maid, 
Broadly  pricked  out  her  rough  brocade. 
The  singed  mosses  curling  here, 
A  golden  fleece  too  short  to  shear ! 
Crumbled  to  sparkling  dust  beneath 
My  light  step  on  that  sunny  heath. 

Light!   for  the  ardor  of  the  clime 
Made  race  my  spirit  that  sublime, 
Bore  me  as  buoyant  as  young  Time 
Over  the  green  earth's  grassy  prime, 
Ere  his  slouched  wing  caught  up  her  slime 
And  sprang  I  not  from  clay  and  crime, 
Had  from  those  humming  beds  of  thyme 
Lifted  me  near  the  starry  chime 
To  lean  on  empyrean  rhyme. 

No  melody  beneath  the  moon 
Sweeter  than  this  deep  wasel  tune ! 
Here  on  the  greensward  grown  hot  gray, 
Crisp  as  the  unshorn  desert  hay, 
Where  his  moist  pipe  the  dulcet  rill 
For  humorous  grasshopper  doth  fill, 
That  spits  himself  from  blade  to  blade 
By  long  o'er-rcst  uneasy  made ; 
Here  ere  the  stream  by  fountain  pushes 
Lose  himself  brightly  in  the  rushes 
With  butterfly  path  among  the  bushes, 
I'll  lay  me  on  these  mosses  brown, 
Murmuring  beside  his  murmurs  down, 
And  from  the  liquid  tale  he  tells 
Glean  out  some  broken  syllables ; 
^  Or  close  mine  eyes  in  dreamy  swoon. 

As  by  hoarse  winding  deep  Gihoon 
Soothes  with  the  hum  his  idle  pain 
The  melancholy  Tartar  swain, 
Sole  mark  on  that  huge-meadowed  plain  ! 

Hie  on  to  great  Ocean !  hie  on  !  hie  on ! 
Fleet  as  water  can  gallop,  hie  on  ! 
Hear  ye  not  through  the  ground 
How  the  sea-trumpets  sound 
Round  the  sea-monarch's  shallop,  hie  on ! 

Hie  on  to  brave  Ocean !  hie  on !  hie  on ! 

From  the  sleek  mountain  levels,  hie  on  1 

Hear  ye  not  in  the  boom 

Of  the  water-bell's  womb 

Pleasant  whoop  to  sea-revels,  hie  onl 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  &D7 

Hie  on  to  bright  Ocean  !  hie  on !  hie  on ' 

'Tis  the  store  of  rich  waters,  hie  on ! 

Hear  ye  not  the  rough  sands 

Rolling  gold  on  the  gtrands, 

For  poor  Earth's  sons  and  daughters,  hie  on  . 

Hie  on  to  calm  Ocean !  hie  on  !  hie  on  1 
Summer  rest  from  earth-riot,  hie  on ! 
Hear  ye  not  the  smooth  tide 
With  deep  murmur  and  wide 
Call  ye  down  to  his  quiet,  hie  on  1 

Thus  to  the  bubbling  streamlet  elves 

To  haste  them  down  the  slopes  and  shelves, 

Methought  some  naiad  of  their  fall 

In  her  bright  dropping  sparry  hall, 

Sang  to  her  glassy  virginal. 

Perchance  to  me  monition  sweet ; 

I  started  upright  to  my  feet 

Attent :  'twas  but  a  fancy  dream ! 

I  only  heard  in  measure  meet 

The  pulses  of  the  fountain  beat,        • 

As  onward  prest  the  throbbing  stream. 

Fair  fell  no  less  my  fancy  dream ! 

I  have  been  still  led  like  a  child 

My  heedless  wayward  path  and  wild 

Through  this  rough  world  by  feebler  clews 

(So  they  were  bright)  than  rainbow's  dews 

Spun  by  the  insect  gossamer 

To  climb  with  through  the  ropy  air. 

Fair  fall  ye  then  my  fairy  dream ! 

I'll  with  this  labyrinthian  stream, 

Where'er  it  flow,  where'er  it  cease, 

There  be  my  pathway  and  my  peace ! 

Swift  as  a  star  falls  through  the  night. 
Swift  as  a  sunshot  dart  of  light 
Down  from  the  hills  heaven-touching  height 
The  streamlet  vanished  from  my  sight. 

The  poet  is  carried  away  by  the  phoenix,  and  laid  at  the  bot- 
tom of  her  tree,  in  Arabia  Felix,  where  he  beholds  her  dissolution. 

0  blest  unfabled  ineese-trce 
That  burns  in  glorious  Araby. 
With  red  scent  chaliclng  the  air 
Till  earth-life  grow  Elysian  there ! 


')08  K  E  C  O  T,  L  E  C  T 1  O  N  S    O  F 

Half  buried  to  lier  flamiiip  hrenst 

In  this  bright  tree  she  makes  her  nest. 

Hundred-sunned  Phoonix!  where  she  must 

Crumble  at  length  to  hoary  dust ! 

Her  gorgeous  death-bed  !  her  rich  pyro 

Burnt  up  with  aromatic  fire ! 

Her  urn  right  high  from  spoiler  men  1 

Her  birth-place  when  self-born  again  1 

The  mountainless  green  wilds  among 

Here  ends  she  her  unechoing  song! 

With  amber  tears  and  odorous  sighs 

Mourned  by  the  desert  where  she  dies ' 

Laid  like  the  young  fawn  mossily 

In  sungreen  vales  of  Araby 

I  woke,  hard  by  the  Phoenix  tree 

That  with  shadeless  boughs  flamed  over  me; 

And  upward  called  by  a  dunbery 

With  moon  broad  orbs  of  wonder,  I 

Beheld  tlic  immortal  bird  on  high 

Glassing  the  great  sun  in  her  eye; 

Steadfast  she  gazed  upon  his  fire, 

Still  her  destroyer  and  her  sire. 

As  if  to  his  her  soul  of  flame 

Had  flown  already  whence  it  came  ; 

Like  those  who  sit  and  glare  so  still 

Intense  with  their  death-struggle  till 

We  touch  and  curdle  at  their  chill ! 

But  breathing  yet  while  she  doth  bum 

The  deathless  Daughter  of  the  Sun  1 

Slowly  to  crimson  embers  burn 

The  beauties  of  the  brightsome  one. 

O'er  the  broad  nest  her  silver  wings 

Shook  down  their  wasteful  glitterings ; 

Her  brindled  neck  high  arched  in  air 

Like  a  small  rainbow  faded  there. 

But  brighter  glowed  her  plumy  crown 

Moldering  to  golden  ashes  down ; 

With  fume  of  sweetwood  to  the  skies, 

Pure  as  a  Saint's  adoring  sighs. 

Warm  as  a  prayer  in  Paradise, 

Her  life-breath  rose  in  sacrifice  I 

The  while  with  shrill  triumphant  tone 

Sounding  aloud,  aloft,  alone, 

Cea.seless  her  joyful  death-wail  she 

Sang  to  dei)arting  Araby  ! 

Deep  melancholy  wonder  drew 

Tears  from  my  heart-spring  at  that  view; 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  609 

Like  cresset  sheddiug  its  last  flare 
Upon  some  wistful  mariner, 
The  bird,  fast  blending  with  the  sky, 
Turned  on  me  her  dead-gazing  eye 
Once, — and  as  surge  to  shallow  spray 
Sank  down  to  vapory  dust  away. 

0  fast  her  amber  blood  doth  flow 
From  the  heart-wounded  Incense  Tree, 
Fast  as  earth's  deep  embosomed  woe 
In  silent  rivulets  to  the  sea ! 

Beauty  may  weep  her  fair  first-born 
Perchance  in  as  resplendent  tears. 
Such  golden  dew-drops  bow  the  corn 
When  the  stern  sickleman  appears. 

But  oh  !   such  perfume  to  a  bower 
Never  allured  sweet-seeking  bee, 
As  to  sip  fast  that  nectarous  shower 
A  thirstier  minstrel  drew  in  me. 

Mr.  Barley's  death  was  even  more  lonely  than  his  life.  The 
kind  and  admirable  persons  who  had  been  his  best  and  truest 
friends  in  London,  wrote  to  his  brother  in  Dublin  as  soon  as  the 
imminent  danger  of  his  last  illness  was  known.  No  answer  ar- 
rived. He  died  ;  and  they  wrote  again  still  more  pressingly, 
and  then,  after  a  delay  which  rendered  his  interment  inevitable, 
it  was  discovered  that  the  brother  in  Ireland  lay  dead  also. 

The  story  of  Mr.  Barnard  is  very  difi'erent.  Eminent  for 
scholarship,  rich  in  friends,  easy  in  circumstances,  secure  of  pre- 
ferment in  the  sacred  profession  to  which  he  was  an  honor,  and 
married  to  the  lovely  woman  whom  he  so  truly  loved,  it  is  prob- 
able that  the  very  felicity  of  his  lot  prevented  his  devoting  him- 
self to  literary  pursuits.  Beyond  the  light  and  pleasant  task  of 
translating  the  Latin  poems  of  Flaminio,  and  the  composition  of 
such  short  lyrics  as  were  suggested  by  the  events  or  the  feelings 
of  the  hour,  he  never  went  beyond  the  plans  and  projects  with 
which  most  men  of  talent  amuse  their  leisure.  Even  such  verso 
as  he  did  write,  remained  in  manuscript  until  it  was  collected 
and  printed  after  his  death  by  his  accomplished  father-in-law, 
Mr.  Archdeacon  Wrangham. 

Few  as  they  are,  these  lyrics  are  remarkable,  not  only  for 
grace  and  beauty,  but  for  a  vigor  of  thought,  a  fullness,  a  body, 


510  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

vi'iy  unusual  in  occasional  verses.  Had  longer  life  been  lent  to 
Mr.  Barnard,  we  might  have  boasted  another  writer  of  high  and 
pure  poetry. 

MY  GREYHOUNDS. 

Oh !   dear  is  the  naked  wold  to  mc 

AVliere  I  move  alone  in  my  majesty ! 

Thyme  and  cistus  kiss  my  feet, 

And  spread  around  their  incense  sweet; 

The  laverock,  springing  from  his  bed, 

Pours  roj-al  greeting  o'er  my  head ; 

My  gallant  guards,  my  greyhounds  tried, 

March  in  order  by  my  side  ; 

And  every  thing  that's  earthly  born, 

Wrath  and  pomp,  and  pride  and  scorn — 

And  chiefly  thee, 
Who  lift'st  so  high  thy  little  horn, 

Philosophy. 

Wilt  thou  say  that  life  is  short ; 
That  wisdom  loves  not  hunter's  sport, 
But  virtue's  golden  fruitage  rather 
Hopes  in  cloistered  cell  to  gather  1 
Gallant  greyhounds  tell  her,  here 
Trusty  faith  and  love  sincere. 
Here  do  grace  and  zeal  abide, 
And  humbly  keep  their  master's  side. 
Bid  her  send  whate'er  hath  sold 
Human  hearts — lust,  power  and  gold — 

Accursed  train ! 
And  blush  to  find  that  on  the  wold 

They  bribe  in  vain. 

Then  let  her  preach !     The  Muse  and  I 
Will  turn  to  goshawk,  gaze  and  guy : 
And  give  to  worth  its  proper  place 
Though  found  in  nature's  lowliest  race. 
And  when  we  would  be  great  or  wise, 
Lo!   o'er  our  heads  are  smiling  skies; 
And  thence  we'll  draw  instruction  true 
That  worldly  science  never  knew, 
Then  let  her  argue  as  she  will : — 
I'll  wander  with  my  greyhounds  still 

(Halloo!   halloo!) 
And  hunt  for  health  on  the  breeze-worn  hill 

And  wisdom  too. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  511 


THE   LANCH   OF   THE   NAUTILUS. 

Up  with  thy  thin  transparent  sail 

Thou  tiny  mariner ! — The  gale 

Comes  gently  from  the  land,  and  brings 

The  odor  of  all  lovely  things 

That  zephyr  in  his  wanton  play 

Scatters  in  spring's  triumphant  way  ;— 

Of  primrose  pale,  and  violet, 

And  young  anemone,  beset 

By  thousand  spikes  of  every  hue, 

Purple  and  scarlet,  white  and  blue : 

And  every  breeze  that  sweeps  the  earth 

Brings  the  sweet  sounds  of  love  and  mirth ; 

The  shrilly  pipe  of  things  unseen 

That  fritter  in  the  meadow  green ; 

The  linnet's  love-sick  melody. 

The  lovecock's  carol  loud  and  high  ; 

And  mellowed,  as  from  distance  borne 

The  music  of  the  shepherd's  horn. 

Up  little  Nautilus !— Thy  day 

Of  life  and  joy  is  come  ; — Away ! 

The  ocean's  flood  that  gleams  so  bright 

Beneath  the  morning's  ruddy  light 

With  gentlest  surge  scarce  ripples  o'er 

The  lucid  gems  that  pave  the  shore ; 

Each  billow  wears  its  little  spray 

As  maids  wear  wreaths  on  holyday ; 

And  maid  ne'er  danced  on  velvet  green 

More  blithely  round  the  May's  young  queen. 

Then  thou  shalt  dance  o'er  yon  bright  sea 

That  wooes  tliy  prow  so  lovingly. 

Then  lift  thy  tail !  — 'Tis  shame  to  rest 

Here  on  the  sand  thy  pearly  breast. 

Away  !  thou  first  of  memories. 

Give  to  the  wind  all  idle  fears; 

Thy  freight  demands  no  jealous  care ; 

Yet  navies  might  be  proud  to  bear 

The  wondrous  wealth,  the  unbought  spell 

That  load  thy  ruby-cinctured  shell. 

A  heart  is  there  to  nature  true, 

Which  wrath  nor  envy  ever  knew ; 

A  heart  that  calls  no  creature  foe, 

And  ne'er  designed  a  brother's  woe ; 

A  heart  whose  joy  o'erflows  its  home 

Simply  because  sweet  spring  is  come. 


ol2  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Up  beauteous  Nautilus  !  Away  ! 

The  idle  I^Iuso  that  chides  thy  stay, 

Shall  watch  thoc  long  with  anxious  eye 

O'er  thy  bright  course  delighted  fly ; 

And  when  black  storms  delbrm  the  main, 

Cry  welcome  to  the  sands  again ! 

Heaven  grant  that  she  through  life's  wild  How 

May  sail  as  innocent  as  thou  ; 

And  homeward  turned  like  thee  may  find 

Sure  refuge  from  the  wave  and  wind. 

TO   MY   HOME. 

Yon  old  gray  wall,  whose  gable  high 

Lifts  the  Redeemer's  sign, 
Whose  tendrils  green  like  tracery 

O'er  arch  and  muUion  twine^ 
It  is  indeed  a  holy  place  ; 
For  God  Himself  hath  deigned  to  grace 

This  humble  home  of  mine  ; 
And  thoughts  of  Him  are  blended  fair 
With  every  joy  I've  tasted  there. 

The  one  best  friend  whose  modest  worth 

E'en  from  my  praises  fiies  ; 
The  babe  whose  soul  is  budding  forth 

From  her  blue  smiling  eyes ; 
And  prattling  still  the  sturdy  boy 
AVho  climbs  my  knee  with  heart^of  joy 

To  gain  his  little  prize — 
Their  looks  of  love  how  can  I  see 
Nor  think,  great  Sire  of  Love,  on  Thee  1 

Pride  enters  not  yon  peaceful  room  ; 

But  books  and  acts  abound  ; 
Nor  there  do  vain  Penates  come 

To  reign — 'tis  holy  ground  ! 
And  duly,  Lord,  when  evening  brings 
Release  from  toil  on  balmy  wings, 

An  household  bard  is  found 
To  raise  Thy  throne,  and  offer  there 
The  gift  Thou  lovest.  Domestic  Prayer. 

Within  all  studies  end  in  Thee ; 

And  when  abroad  I  rove, 
There's  not  an  herb,  a  flower,  a  tree, 

That  speaks  not  of  Thy  love ; 
There's  not  a  leaf  that  whirled  on  high 
Wanders  along  the  stormy  sky 

That  hath  not  woi'ds  to  prove 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  613 

How  like  would  be  my  restless  lot, 
If  Grace  Divine  upheld  me  not  I 

Oh  !  look  upon  yon  glorious  scene, 

Wood,  hill  and  wave  survey ; 
Mark  every  path  where  God  hath  been 

And  own  His  wondrous  way. 
For  me  I  daily  come  to  bless, 
Dear  landscape,  all  thy  loveliness ; 

And  dare  not  turn  away, 
Till  I  have  spoken  the  Psalmist's  line, 
"  These  gracious  works,  dread  Lord,  are  Thine !" 

My  Home  !  my  Home  !  I've  paused  awhile 

In  many  a  stranger  land, 
And  seen  in  all  born  nature  smile, 

Beneath  her  Maker's  hand ; 
But  never  since  calm  Reason  took 
From  fancy's  clutch  her  rhyming  book, 

A  joyful  resting  planned — 
Till  here  the  blessed  scene  I  laid, 
Here  in  mine  own  romantic  shade. 

My  Home  !  my  Home !  oh  !  ever  dear 

Thy  hallowed  scenes  shall  lie ; 
In  joyous  grief  in  hope  or  fear. 

My  spirit  clings  to  thee. 
I  deem  my  home  an  emblem  meet 
Of  that  enduring  last  retreat 

From  pain  and  passion  free. 
Where  peace  shall  fix  her  bright  abode 
And  yield  her  followers  up  to  God. 

To  Mr.  Barnard,  also,  I  was  personally  a  stranger.  So  I  was 
to  the  excellent  friend  and  delightful  correspondent,  Mr.  Arch- 
deacon Wrangharn,  to  whose  kindness  I  owe  the  possession  of  his 
poems.  Twice  I  was  about  to  visit  the  Archdeacon,  and  twice 
Death  came  between.  The  first  time  he  invited  me  to  his  pre- 
bendal  residence  at  Chester,  to  meet  another  dear  and  most  val- 
ued correspondent  and  friend,  Mrs.  Hemans  ;  he  even  proposed  to 
come  as  far  as  Oxford  to  fetch  rnc.  But  my  mother  was  already 
seized  by  the  illness  from  which  she  never  recovered  ;  and  tlio 
three  friends,  of  whom  I  am  the  only  survivor,  and  of  whom  none 
was  then  old,  said  all — Another  time  I  None  of  us  foresaw  how 
soon  the  youngest  and  most  gifted  of  the  three  should  die  in  her 
Irish  home  ;  and  the  two  who  remained  had  little  heart  to  plan 

Y* 


514  KECOLLECTIO^"a    OF 

joyous  meetings.  But  nine  years  apo,  when  my  dear  father  was 
also  taken  from  me,  the  good  Archdeacon  mixed  with  his  condo- 
lences an  invitation  to  visit  him  at  Hunmanby.  The  letter  was 
singularly  interesting,  telling  of  his  own  father's  death  just  after 
his  early  Cambridge  triumphs,  and  of  the  strange  and  solemn 
mixture  of  that  great  grief  with  his  joy.  ISingularly  enough,  with 
that  kind  and  gracious  invitation  to  the  vicarage  at  Hunmanby, 
came  one  equally  gracious  and  kind  from  the  head  of  my  own 
family,  Admiral  Osbaliston  Mitford,  to  visit  him  and  Mrs.  Mit- 
ford  at  Hunmanby  Hall.  I  answered  both  letters  by  return  of 
post  ;  and  before  that  to  my  venerable  friend  reached  its  destina- 
tion, he  too  was  dead. 

Let  me  add  a  less  gloomy  recollection  of  this  accomplished 
scholar,  who  was  an  eminent  book  collector.  About  thirty  years 
ago,  one  of  the  cleverest  writers  of  the  day  having  published  (as 
sometimes  happens)  a  verj'  silly  book,  the  Archdeacon  hastened 
to  secure  it  for  his  library.  '■  What  could  induce  you  to  purchase 
that  nonsense  ?"  inquired  a  friend.  "  Because  it  is  so  bad  that  it 
is  sure  to  become  scarce,"  was  the  reply.  The  prediction  has 
been  verified  to  the  letter.  I  should  not  wonder  if  that  copy  were 
an  unique. 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  515 


XXXIX. 

AMERICAN  PROSE  WRITERS. 

NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 

In  spite  of  her  apparent  barrenness  at  the  late  Exhibition,  a 
barrenness  which  probably  resulted  mainly  from  the  actual  riches 
of  that  vast  country,  its  prodigious  territory,  and  its  still  growing 
youth  ;  in  spite  of  our  susceptibilities  ;  and  in  spite  of  her  own, 
America  is  a  great  nation,  and  the  Americans  are  a  great  people  ; 
and  if  that  Fair  of  the  World  had  been  a  book  fair,  as  at  Leipsic, 
I  suspect  that  we  should  have  seen  our  kinsfolk  over  the  water 
cutting  a  very  good  figure  with  their  literary  ware. 

Certain  it  is,  that  when  a  people  hardly  seventy  years  old,  wlio 
have  still  living  among  them  men  that  remember  when  their  re- 
public was  a  province,  can  claim  for  themselves  such  a  divine  as 
Dr.  Channing,  and  my  friend  Professor  Norton,  the  friend  of  Mrs. 
Hemans  ;  such  an  historian  as  Mr.  Prescott ;  and  such  an  orator 
as  Daniel  Webster,  they  have  good  right  to  be  proud  of  their  sons 
of  the  soil. 

To  say  nothing  of  these  ornaments  of  our  common  language,  or 
of  the  naturalists  Wilson  and  Andcrton — are  they  American  ?  they 
are  worth  fighting  for  ;  or  of  the  travelers,  Dana,  Stephens,  and 
Willis,  who  are  certainly  transatlantic  ;  or  of  the  fair  writers,  Mrs. 
Sigourncy  and  Miss  Sedgwick,  both  my  friends  ;  or  of  the  poor 
Margaret  Fuller,  drowned  so  deplorably  only  the  other  day,  with 
her  husband  and  her  infant,  on  her  own  shores  ;  her  Itahan  hus- 
band said  only  the  day  before  leaving  Florence,  that  it  had  been 
predicted  to  him  that  he  should  die  at  sea  ;  or  of  the  great  his- 
torian of  Spanish  literature,  Mr.  Ticknor  (another  friend  I)  ;  or  of 
a  class  of  writers  in  which  New  England  is  rich — orator-writers, 
whose  eloquence,  first  addressed  to  large  audiences,  is  at  onco 
diffused  and  preserved  by  the  press — witness  the  orations  of  Mi 


ril6  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Sumner,  and  the  lectures  of  Mr.  "NVliipjile  and  Mr.  Giles  ;  to  say 
notliing  ol  these  volumes,  which  will  bear  a  competition  with  any 
of  their  class  in  the  elder  country,  let  us  look  at  the  living  novel- 
ists, and  see  if  they  be  of  any  ordinary  stamp. 

The  author  of  the  "  Sketch-book"  is  almost  as  m.uch  a  classic 
with  us  as  in  his  own  country.  That  book,  indeed,  and  one  or 
two  that  succeeded  it,  were  so  purely  English  in  style  and  feeling, 
that  when  their  success — their  immense  and  deserved  success — 
induced  the  reprint  of  some  drolleries  which  had  for  subject  New 
York  ill  its  Dutch  state,  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  they  were 
by  the  same  author.  Since  then,  Mr.  Washington  Irving,  having 
happily  for  literature  filled  a  diplomatic  post  in  Spain,  has  put 
forth  other  works,  half  Spanish,  half  Moorish,  equally  full  of  local 
color  and  local  history,  books  as  good  as  history,  that  almost  make 
us  live  in  the  Alhambra,  and  increase  our  sympathy  with  the 
tasteful  and  chivalrous  people  who  planned  its  halls  and  gardens. 
Then  he  returned  home  ;  and  there  he  has  done  for  the  back- 
woods and  the  prairies  what  he  before  did  for  the  manor-house  of 
England  and  the  palace  of  Granada.  Few,  very  few,  can  show 
a  long  succession  of  volumes,  so  pure,  so  graceful,  and  so  varied  as 
Mr.  Irving.  To  my  poor  cottage,  rich  only  in  printed  paper,  peo- 
ple often  come  to  borrow  books  for  themselves  or  their  children. 
Sometimes  they  make  their  own  selection  ;  sometimes,  much 
against  my  will,  they  leave  the  choice  to  me  ;  and  in  either  case 
I  know  no  works  that  are  oftener  lent  than  those  that  bear  the 
pseudonym  of  Geoffrey  Crayon. 

Then  Mr.  Cooper  I  original  and  natural  as  his  own  Pioneers ; 
adventurous  as  Paul  Jones  ;  hardy  as  Long  Tom  ;  persevering 
and  indomitable  as  that  Leather-stocking  whom  he  has  conducted 
through  fifteen  volumes  without  once  varying  from  the  admirable 
portrait  which  he  originally  designed.  They  say  that  he  does  not 
value  our  praise — that  he  has  no  appreciation  for  his  appreciators. 
But  I  do  not  choose  to  believe  such  a  scandal.  It  can  only  be  a 
"  they  say."  He  is  too  richly  gifted  to  be  wanting  in  sympathy 
even  with  his  own  admirers ;  and  if  he  have  an  odd  manner  of 
showing  that  sympathy,  why  it  must  pass  as  "  Pretty  Fanny's 
way."  Since  these  light  words  were  written,  I  grieve  to  say 
that  Mr.  Cooper  is  dead.  I  trust  his  gifted  daughter  will  become 
his  biographer.     Few  lives  would  be  more  interesting. 

Next  comes  one  with  whom  my  saucy  pen  must  take  no  free 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  517 

dom — one  good  and  grave,  and  pure  and  holy — whose  works,  by 
their  high  aim  and  their  fine  execution,  claim  the  respect  of  all. 
Little  known  by  name,  the  excellently  selected  reprints  of  my 
friend  Mr.  Chambers  have  made  Mr.  Ware's  letters  from  Palmyra 
and  from  Rome  familiar  to  all,  who  seek  to  unite  the  excitement 
of  an  early  Christian  story,  a  tale  of  persecution  and  of  martyr- 
dom, with  a  style  and  detail  so  full  of  calm  and  sober  learning, 
that  they  seem  literally  saturated  with  classical  lore.  So  entire 
is  the  feeling  of  scholarship  pervading  these  two  books,  in  one  of 
which  Zenobia  appears  in  her  beautiful  Palmyra  a  powerful 
Q^ueen,  in  the  other  dragged  through  the  streets  of  Rome  a  misera- 
ble captive,  that  we  seem  to  be  reading  a  translation  from  the 
Latin.  There  is  not  a  trace  of  modern  habits  or  modes  of  think- 
ing ;  and  if  Mr.  Ware  had  been  possessed  by  the  monomania  of 
Macpherson  or  of  Chatterton,  it  would  have  rested  with  himself 
to  produce  these  letters  as  a  close  and  literal  version  of  manu- 
scripts of  the  third  century. 

Another  talented  romancer  is  Dr.  Bird,  whose  two  works  on 
the  conquest  of  Mexico  have  great  merit,  although  hidden  behind 
the  mask  of  most  unpromising  titles  (one  of  them  is  called,  I  think, 
"  Abdallah  the  Moor,  or  the  Infidel's  Doom").  I  never  met  with 
any  one  who  had  read  them  but  myself,  to  whom  that  particular 
subject  has  an  unfailing  interest.  His  "  Nick  of  the  Woods,"  a 
striking  but  very  painful  Indian  novel,  and  his  description  of  those 
wonderful  American  caves,  in  which  truth  leaves  fiction  far  be- 
hind, are  generally  known  and  duly  appreciated. 

These  excellent  writers  have  been  long  before  the  public  ;  but 
a  new  star  has  lately  sprung  into  light  in  the  Western  horizon, 
who  in  a  totally  different  manner — and  nothing  is  more  remarka- 
ble among  all  these  American  novelists  than  their  utter  diflcrence 
from  each  other — will  hardly  fail  to  cast  a  bright  illumination 
over  both  hemispheres.  It  is  hardly  two  years  since  Mr.  Haw- 
thorne, until  then  known  only  by  one  or  two  of  those  little  vol- 
umes which  the  sagacious  hold  as  promises  of  future  excellence, 
put  forth  that  singular  book,  "  The  Scarlet  Letter;"  apropos  to 
which.  Dr.  Holmes,  who  so  well  knows  the  value  of  words,  uses 
this  significant  expression  : 


"  I  snatch  the  book  along  whose  burning;  leaves 
His  scarlet  web  our  wild  romancer  weaves." 


518  KKCUL  LECTIONS    OF 

Ami  il  is  ihc  very  word.  "  We  do  s/intch  the  book  ;"'  and  un- 
til we  have  got  to  the  end,  very  few  of  us,  I  apprehend,  have 
sufficient  strength  of  will  to  lay  it  down. 

The  story  is  of  the  early  days  of  New  England  ;  those  days 
when,  as  Mr.  Whittier  has  shown  in  his  clever  mystification, 
called  "  Margaret  Smith's  Journal,"  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  just  es- 
caped from  persecution  in  Europe,  persecuted  those  who  pre- 
sumed to  follow  their  example,  and  to  exercise  liberty  of  thought 
and  worship  in  the  new  home  of  freedom.  Lamentable  inconsist- 
ency of  human  action  I  Nothing  but  the  strongest  historical  evi- 
dence could  make  us  believe  that  they  who  had  cast  away  fortune 
and  country,  and  every  worldly  good  for  conscience'  sake,  should 
visit  with  fire  and  fagot  the  peaceful  (oluaker  and  poor  demented 
creatures  accused  of  witchcraft,  and  driven  by  the  accusation  into 
the  confession,  perhaps  into  a  diseased  craving  for  the  power  and 
the  crime.  But  so  it  is.  Oppression  makes  oppression  ;  persecu- 
tion propagates  persecution.  There  is  no  end  to  the  evil  when 
once  engendered. 

The  "  Scarlet  Letter"  is  not,  however,  a  story  of  witch,  or  of 
Quaker,  although  an  atmosphere  of  sorcery  seems  to  pervade  the 
air,  but  one  of  that  strict  and  rigid  morality  peculiar  to  the  Puri- 
tans, who  loved  to  visit  with  legal  penalties  such  sins  as  are  kept 
in  check  by  public  opinion.  Accordingly,  our  first  sight  of  Hes- 
ter, is  exposed  upon  a  scaffold,  wearing  upon  her  breast  a  scarlet 
A,  glittering  with  gold  embroidery,  and  caiTying  in  her  arms  a 
female  infant.  She  had  been  sent,  without  her  husband,  under 
the  protection  of  some  of  the  elders  of  the  colony,  and  the  punish- 
ment was  not  merely  caused  by  the  birth  of  this  child  of  shame, 
but  by  her  resolute  concealment  of  the  partner  of  her  guilt.  Step 
by  step  the  reader  becomes  acquainted  with  the  secret.  The 
participator  of  her  frailty  was  a  young  and  eloquent  preacher, 
famed  not  only  for  learning  and  talent,  but  for  severe  sanctity. 
The  husband  arrives  under  a  false  character,  recognized  only  by 
the  erring  wife,  before  whom,  cruel,  vindictive,  hating  and  hate- 
ful, he  appears  as  a  visible  conscience,  and  the  sufferings  of  the 
proud  and  fiery  Hester,  suffering  a  daily  martyrdom  of  shame  and 
scorn,  and  of  the  seducer  perishing  under  the  terrible  remorse  of 
undeserved  praise,  respect,  and  honor,  are  among  the  finest  and 
most  original  conceptions  of  tragic  narrative.  Detestable  as  the 
husband  is,  and  with  all  the   passionate  truth  that   Mr.  Haw- 


A    LITEKARY    LIFE.  519 

thorne  has  thrown  into  the  long  agony  of  the  seducer,  we  never, 
in  our  pity  for  the  sufferer,  lose  our  abhorrence  of  the  sin. 

Scarcely  a  twelvemonth  has  passed,  and  another  New  England 
story,  "  The  House  with  the  Seven  Gables,"  has  come  to  redeem 
the  pledge  of  excellence  given  by  the  first. 

In  this  tale,  Fate  plays  almost  as  great  a  part  as  in  a  Greek 
Trilogy.  Two  centuries  ago,  a  certain  wicked  and  powerful 
Colonel  Pyncheon,  was  seized  with  a  violent  desire  to  possess  him- 
self of  a  certain  bit  of  ground,  on  which  to  build  the  large  and 
picturesque  wooden  mansion  from  which  the  story  takes  its  title. 
Master  Maule,  the  original  possessor,  obstinate  and  poor,  refused 
all  offers  of  money  for  his  land  ;  but  being  shortly  afterward  ac- 
cused, no  one  very  well  knows  why,  of  the  fashionable  sin  of 
witchcraft,  the  poor  man  is  tried,  condemned,  and  burnt ;  the 
property  forfeited  and  sold  ;  and  the  rich  man's  house  erected 
without  let  or  pause.  But  the  shadow  of  a  great  crime  has 
passed  over  the  place.  A  bubbling  spring,  famous  for  the  purity 
and  freshness  of  its  waters,  turns  salt  and  bitter,  and  the  rich 
man  himself,  the  great,  powerful,  wicked  Colonel  Pyncheon  is 
found  dead  in  his  own  hall,  stricken  by  some  strange,  sudden, 
, mysterious  death  on  the  very  day  of  his  taking  possession,  and 
when  he  had  invited  half  the  province  to  his  house-warming. 
Both  proprietors,  the  poor  old  wizard,  and  the  wealthy  Colonel, 
leave  one  child,  and  during  two  succeeding  centuries  these  races, 
always  distant  and  peculiar,  come  at  long  intervals  strangely 
across  each  other. 

Nothing  can  exceed  the  skill  with  which  this  part  of  the  book 
is  managed.  The  story  is  not  told  ;  we  find  it  out  ;  we  feel  that 
there  is  a  legend  ;  that  some  strange  destiny  has  hovered  over 
the  old  house,  and  hovers  there  still.  The  slightness  of  the 
means  by  which  this  feeling  is  excited  is  wonderful.  The  mix- 
ture of  the  grotesque  and  the  supernatural  in  Hoffman  and  the 
German  School,  seems  coarse  and  vulgar  blundering  in  the  com- 
parison ;  even  the  mighty  magician  of  Udolpho,  the  Anne  Rad- 
chffe  whom  the  French  quote  with  so  much  unction,  was  a 
bungler  at  her  trade,  when  compared  with  the  vague,  dim,  va- 
pory, impalpable  ghastliness  with  which  Mr.  Hawthorne  has 
contrived  to  envelop  his  narrative. 

Two  hundred  years  have  passed.  The  Maules  liave  disap- 
peared ;  and  the  Pyncheons  are  reduced  by  the  mysterious  death 


520  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

of  the  hist  proprietor  to  a  poor  old  maid  in  extreme  poverty,  Avith 
little  left  but  this  decayiiif^  mansion  ;  a  brother  whom  she  is 
expecting  home  after  a  long,  mysterious  imprisonment ;  a  Judge, 
flourishing  and  prosperous,  in  whom  we  at  once  recognize  a  true 
descendant  of  the  wicked  Colonel  ;  and  a  little  New  England 
girl,  a  countiy  cousin,  who  is  the  veriest  bit  of  life  and  light,  the 
brightest  beam  of  sunshine  that  has  ever  crossed  the  Atlantic. 
Monsieur  Eugene  Sue  had  some  such  inspiration  when,  in  his 
very  happiest  moment,  he  painted  Rigolette  ;  but  this  rose  is 
fresher  still.  Her  name  (there  is  a  great  deal  in  names,  let 
Juliet  say  what  she  will)  is  Phoebe.  I  am  not  going  to  tell  the 
story  of  this  book,  but  I  must  give  one  glimpse  of  Phcebe,  although 
it  will  very  inadequately  convey  the  charm  that  extends  over  the 
whole  volume  ;  and  to  make  that  understood,  I  must  say  that 
the  poor  old  cousin  Hepzibah,  "  Old  Maid  Pyncheon,"  as  she  is 
called  by  her  townsfolk — (I  wonder  whether  the  Americans  do 
actually  bestow  upon  all  their  single  women  that  expressive  des- 
ignation :  one  has  some  right  to  be  curious  as  to  the  titles  con- 
ferred upon  one's  own  order  ;) — "  Old  Maid  Pyncheon"  had  that 
very  day,  for  the  purpose,  as  it  afterward  appeared,  of  supporting 
the  liberated  prisoner,  opened  in  this  aristocratic  mansion  a  little 
shop  ; — N.B.  I  had  once  a  fancy  to  set  up  a  shop  myself,  not 
quite  of  the  same  kind  ;  but  there  were  other  sorts  of  pride  be- 
side my  own  to  be  consulted,  so  beyond  a  jest,  more  than  half- 
earnest,  with  a  rich  neighbor,  who  proposed  himself  as  a  partner, 
the  fancy  hardly  came  to  words.  Ah,  I  have  a  strong  fellow- 
feeling  for  that  poor  Hepzibah — a  decayed  gentlewoman,  elderly, 
ugly,  awkward,  near-sighted,  cross  I  I  have  a  deep  sympathy 
with  "  old  maid  Pyncheon"  as  she  appears  on  the  morning  of  this 
great  trial  : 

"  Forth  she  steps  into  the  dusky  time-darkened  passage  ;  a  tall 
figure  clad  in  black  silk,  with  a  long  and  shrunken  Avaist,  feeling 
her  way  toward  the  stairs,  like  a  near-sighted  person,  as  in  truth 
she  is. 

"  We  must  linger  a  moment  on  the  unfortunate  expression  of 
poor  Hepzibah's  brow.  Her  scowl — as  the  world,  or  such  part 
of  it  as  sometimes  caught  a  transitory  glimpse  of  her  at  the  win- 
dow, wickedly  persisted  in  calling  it — her  scowl  had  done  Miss 
Hepzibah  a  very  ill  office  in  establishing  her  character  as  an  ill 
tempered  old  maid  ;  nor  does  it  appear  improbable  that,  by  often 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  521 

gazing  at  herself  in  a  dim  looking-glass,  and  perpetually  encoun- 
tering her  own  frown  within  its  ghostly  sphere,  she  had  been  led 
to  interpret  her  expression  almost  as  unjustly  as  the  world  did. 
'  How  miserably  cross  I  look,'  she  must  often  have  whispered  to 
herself;  and  ultimately  to  have  fancied  herself  so  by  a  sense  of 
inevitable  doom.  But  her  heart  never  frowned.  It  was  natu- 
rally tender,  sensitive,  and  full  of  little  tremors  and  palpitations  ; 
all  of  which  it  retained,  while  her  visage  was  growing  perversely 
stern,  and  even  fierce.  Nor  had  Hepzibah  ever  any  hardihood, 
except  what  came  from  the  very  warmest  nook  in  her  aflections. 

"All  this  time,  however,  we  are  loitering  faint-heartedly  on 
the  threshold  of  our  story.  In  very  truth,  we  have  a  reluctance 
to  disclose  what  Miss  Hepzibah  Pyncheon  was  about  to  do. 

"  It  has  already  been  observed,  that  in  the  basement  story  of 
the  gable  fronting  on  the  street,  an  unworthy  ancestor,  nearly  a 
century  ago,  had  fitted  up  a  shop.  Ever  since  the  old  gentleman 
retired  from  trade  and  fell  asleep  under  his  coffin-lid,  not  only 
the  shop-door,  but  the  inner  arrangements  had  been  suffered  to 
remain  unchanged,  while  the  dust  of  ages  gathered  inch-deep 
over  the  shelves  and  counter,  and  partly  filled  an  old  pair  of 
scales,  as  if  it  were  of  value  enough  to  be  weighed.  It  treasured 
itself  up,  too,  in  the  half-open  till,  where  there  still  lingered  a 
base  sixpence,  worth  neither  viore  nor  less  than  the  hereditary 
pride  that  had  here  been  put  to  shame.  Such  had  been  the  con- 
dition and  state  of  the  little  shop  in  old  Hepzibah's  childhood, 
when  she  and  her  brother  used  to  play  at  hide-and-seek  in  its 
forsaken  precincts.  Such  it  had  remained  until  within  a  few 
days  past. 

"  But  now,  though  the  shop  window  was  still  closely  cur- 
tained from  the  public  gaze,  a  remarkable  change  had  taken  place 
in  its  interior.  The  rich  and  heavy  festoons  of  cobweb  which  it 
had  cost  a  long  ancestral  succession  of  spiders  their  life's  labor  to 
spin  and  weave,  had  been  carefully  brushed  away  from  the  ceil- 
ing. The  counter,  shelves,  and  floor  had  all  been  scoured,  and 
the  latter  was  overstrewn  with  fresh  blue  sand.  The  brown 
scales,  too,  had  evidently  undergone  rigid  discipline  in  an  un- 
availing effort  to  rub  off  the  rust  which,  alas  !  had  eaten  through 
and  through  their  substance.  Neither  was  the  little  old  shop 
any  longer  empty  of  merchantable  goods.  A  curious  eye.  privi- 
leged to  take  an   account  of  stock  and  investigate  behind  the 


522  K  ECU  L  LECTIONS    OF 

cmmtor,  would  have  discovered  a  barrel — yea,  two  or  three  bar- 
rels and  halt"  ditto — one  containing  flour,  another  apples,  and  a 
third  perhaps  Indian  meal.  There  was  likewise  a  squai'e  box 
of  pine- wood  full  of  soap  in  bars  ;  also  another  of  the  same  size, 
ill  which  were  tallow  candles,  ten  to  the  pound.  A  small  stock 
of  brown  sugar,  some  white  beans  and  split  peas,  and  a  few  other 
commodities  of  low  price,  and  such  as  are  constantly  in  demand, 
made  up  the  bulkier  portion  of  the  meixhandise.  It  might  have 
been  taken  for  a  ghostly  or  phantasmagoric  reflection  of  the  old 
shopkeeper  Pyncheon's  shabbily-provided  shelves,  save  that  some 
of  the  articles  were  of  a  description  and  outward  form  which 
would  hardly  have  been  known  in  his  day.  For  instance,  there 
was  a  glass  pickle-jar  filled  with  fragments  of  Gibraltar  rock  ; 
not  indeed  splinters  of  the  veritable  stone  production  of  the  famous 
fortress,  but  bits  of  delectable  candy  neatly  done  up  in  white 
paper.  Jim  Crow,  moreover,  was  seen  executing  his  world-re- 
nowned dance  in  gingerbread.  A  party  of  leaden  dragoons  were 
seen  galloping  along  one  of  the  shelves  in  equipments  and  uni- 
forms of  modern  cut ;  and  there  were  some  sugar  figures  with  no 
strong  resemblance  to  the  humanity  of  any  epoch,  but  less  un- 
satisfactorily representing  our  own  fashions  than  those  of  a  hun- 
dred years  ago.  Another  phenomenon  still  more  strikingly  mod- 
em was  a  package  of  lucifer  matches,  which  in  old  times  would 
have  been  thought  actually  to  borrow  their  instantaneous  flame 
from  the  nether  fires  of  Tophet. 

"In  short,  to  bring  the  matter  at  once  to  a  point,  it  was  incon- 
trovertibty  evident  that  somebody  had  taken  the  shop  and  fix- 
tures of  the  long-retired  and  forgotten  Mr.  Pyncheon,  and  was 
about  to  renew  the  enterprise  of  that  departed  worthy  with  a 
different  set  of  customers.  Who  could  this  bold  adventurer  be  ? 
And  of  all  places  in  the  world  why  had  he  chosen  the  House  of 
the  Seven  Gables  for  the  scene  of  his  commercial  speculations  ? 

"  We  return  to  the  elderly  maiden.  She  at  length  withdrew 
her  eyes  from  the  dark  countenance  of  the  Coloners  portrait, 
heaved  a  sigh — indeed  her  breast  was  a  very  cave  of  ^olus  that 
morning — and  stepped  across  the  room  on  tiptoe,  as  is  the  cus- 
tomary gait  of  elderly  women.  Passing  through  an  intervening 
passage,  she  opened  a  door  which  communicated  with  the  shop 
just  now  so  elaborately  described,  owing  to  the  projection  of  the 
upper  story,  and  still  more  to  the  dark  shadow  of  the  Pyncheon 


A    LITEKAKY    LIFE.  523 

elm,  which  stood  almost  directly  in  front  of  the  gable— the  twi- 
light here  was  still  as  much  akin  to  night  as  morning.  Another 
heavy  sigh  from  Miss  Hepzibah,  after  a  moment's  pause  on  the 
threshold,  peering  toward  the  window  with  her  near-sighted 
scowl,  as  if  frowning  down  some  bitter  enemy,  she  projected  her- 
self into  the  shop.  The  haste,  and,  as  it  were,  the  galvanic  im- 
pulse of  the  movement,  were  quite  startling. 

'■  Nervously,  in  a  sort  of  frenzy  we  might  almost  say,  she  be- 
gan to  busy  herself  in  arranging  some  children's  playthings  and 
other  little  wares  on  the  shelves  and  at  the  shop-window.  In  the 
aspect  of  this  dark-arrayed,  pale-faced,  ladylike  old  figure  there 
was  a  deeply  tragic  character  that  contrasted  irreconcilably 
with  the  ludicrous  pettiness  of  her  employment.  It  seemed  a 
strange  anomaly  that  so  gaunt  and  dismal  a  personage  should  take 
a  toy  in  hand  ;  a  miracle  that  the  toy  did  not  vanish  in  her  grasp  ; 
a  miserably  absurd  idea  that  she  should  go  on  perplexing  her 
stifi'  and  somber  intellect  with  the  question  how  to  tempt  little 
boys  into  her  premises  I  Yet  such  is  undoubtedly  her  object. 
Now  she  places  a  gingerbread  elephant  against  the  window,  but 
with  so  tremulous  a  touch  that  it  tumbles  upon  the  floor  with  the 
dismemberment  of  three  legs  and  its  trunk  ;  it  has  ceased  to  be 
an  elephant,  and  has  become  a  few  bits  of  musty  gingerbread. 
There  again  she  has  upset  a  tumbler  of  marbles,  all  of  which  roll 
different  ways,  and  each  individual  marble,  devil-directed,  into 
the  most  difficult  obscurity  that  it  can  find.  Heaven  help  our 
poor  old  Hepzibah,  and  forgive  us  for  taking  a  ludicrous  view  of 
her  position.  As  her  rigid  and  rusty  frame  goes  down  upon  its 
hands  and  knees  in  quest  of  the  absconding  marbles,  we  posi- 
tivfly  feel  so  much  the  more  inclined  to  shed  tears  of  sympathy 
from  the  very  fact  that  we  must  needs  turn  aside  and  laugh  at 
her.  For  here — and  if  we  fail  to  impress  it  suitably  upon  the 
reader  it  is  our  own  fault  and  not  that  of  the  theme — here  is  one 
of  the  truest  points  of  interest  that  occur  in  ordinary  life.  It  was 
the  final  throe  of  what  called  itself  old  gentility.  A  lady,  who 
had  fed  herself  from  childhood  with  the  shadowy  food  of  aristo- 
cratic reminiscences,  and  whose  religion  it  was  that  a  lady's  hand 
soils  itself  immediately  by  doing  aught  for  bread,  this  born  lady, 
after  sixty  years  of  harrowing  means,  is  fain  to  step  down  from 
her  pedestal  of  imaginary  rank.  Poverty,  treading  close  upon  her 
heels  for  a  hfetime,  has  come  up  with  her  at  last.     iShe  must 


524  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

oaru  her  own  food  or  starve.  And  we  have  stolen  upon  Miss 
Hepzibah  Pyncheon  too  irreverently  at  the  instant  of  time  when 
the  patrician  lady  is  to  be  transformed  into  the  plebeian  woman. 

'•  In  this  republican  country,  amid  the  fluctuating  waves  of 
our  social  life,  somebody  is  always  at  the  drowning  point.  The 
tragedy  is  enacted  with  as  continual  a  repetition  as  that  of  a 
popular  drama  on  a  holyday  ;  and  nevertheless  is  felt  as  deeply 
perhaps  as  when  an  hereditary  noble  sinks  below  his  order.  More 
deeply  ;  since  with  us  rank  is  the  grosser  substance  of  wealth  and 
a  splendid  establishment,  and  has  no  spiritual  existence  after  the 
death  of  these,  but  dies  hopelessly  along  with  them.  And  there- 
fore since  we  have  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  introduce  our  heroine 
at  so  inauspicious  a  juncture,  we  would  entreat  for  a  mood  of  due 
solemnity  in  the  spectators  of  her  fate.  Let  us  behold  in  poor 
Hepzibah,  the  immemorial  lady,  two  hundred  years  old,  on  this 
side  of  the  water,  and  thrice  as  many  on  the  other,  with  her 
antique  portraits,  pedigrees,  coats  of  arras,  and  her  claim  as  first 
heiress  to  that  princely  territory  at  the  eastward,  no  longer  a 
wilderness  but  a  populous  fertility — born,  too,  in  Pyncheon  Street, 
under  the  Pyncheon  elm,  and  in  the  Pyncheon  house  where  she 
has  spent  all  her  days,  reduced  now  in  that  very  house  to  be  the 
huckstress  of  a  cent  shop  I 

"  This  business  of  setting  up  a  petty  shop  is  almost  the  only 
resource  of  women  in  circumstances  at  all  similar  to  those  of  our 
unfortunate  recluse.  With  her  near-sightedness,  and  those  trem- 
ulous fingers  of  hers,  at  once  inflexible  and  delicate,  she  could  not 
be  a  seamstress,  although  her  sampler  of  fifty  years  gone  by  ex- 
hibited some  of  the  most  recondite  specimens  of  ornamental 
needle-work.  A  school  for  little  children  had  been  often  in  her 
thoughts  ;  and  at  one  time  she  had  begun  a  review  of  her  early 
studies  in  the  New  England  primer,  with  a  view  to  prepare  her- 
self for  the  oflice  of  instructress.  But  the  love  of  children  had 
never  been  quickened  in  Hepzibah's  heart,  and  was  now  tor])id, 
if  not  extinct ;  she  watched  the  little  people  of  the  neighborhood 
from  her  chamber  window,  and  doubted  whether  she  could  toler- 
ate a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  them.  Besides,  in  our 
day,  the  very  ABC  had  become  a  science  greatly  too  abstruse  to 
be  any  longer  taught  by  pointing  a  pen  from  letter  to  letter.  A 
modern  child  could  teach  old  Hepzibah  more  than  old  Hepzibah 
could  teach  the  child.     So  with  many  a  cold,  deep  heart-quake  at 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  525 

the  idea  of  at  last  coming  into  sordid  contact  with  the  world  from 
which  she  had  so  long  kept  aloof,  while  every  added  day  of  seclu- 
sion had  rolled  another  stone  against  the  cavern  door  of  her  her- 
mitage ;  the  poor  thing  bethought  herself  of  the  ancient  shop- 
window,  the  rusty  scales  and  dusty  till.  She  might  have  held 
back  a  little  longer ;  but  another  circumstance,  not  yet  hinted  at, 
had  somewhat  hastened  her  decision.  Her  humble  preparations, 
therefore,  were  duly  made,  and  the  enterprise  was  now  to  be  com- 
menced. Nor  was  she  entitled  to  complain  of  any  remarkable 
singularity  in  her  fate.  For  in  the  town  of  her  nativity  we  might 
point  to  several  little  shops  of  a  similar  description  ;  some  of  them 
in  houses  as  ancient  as  that  of  the  Seven  Gables,  and  one  or  two, 
it  may  be,  where  a  decayed  gentlewoman  stands  behind  the 
counter,  as  grim  an  image  of  family  pride  as  Miss  Hepzibah  Pyn- 
cheon  herself 

"  Our  miserable  old  Hepzibah  I  It  is  a  heavy  annoyance  to  a 
writer  who  endeavors  to  represent  nature,  its  various  attitudes  and 
circumstances,  in  a  reasonably  correct  outline  and  true  coloring, 
that  so  much  of  the  mean  and  ludicrous  should  be  hopelessly 
mixed  up  with  the  purest  pathos  that  life  anywhere  supplies  to 
him.  What  tragic  dignity,  for  example,  can  be  Mrought  into  a 
scene  like  this  ?  How  can  we  elevate  our  history  of  retribution 
for  sin  of  long  ago  when,  as  one  of  our  most  prominent  figures,  we 
are  compelled  to  introduce,  not  a  young  and  lovely  woman,  nor 
even  the  stately  remains  of  beauty  storm-shattered  by  affliction, 
but  a  gaunt,  sallow,  rusty-jointed  maiden,  in  a  long-waisted  silk 
gown,  and  with  the  strange  horror  of  a  turban  on  her  head  ? 
Nevertheless,  if  we  look  through  all  the  heroic  fortunes  of  man- 
kind we  shall  find  the  same  entanglement  of  something  mean  or 
trivial  with  whatever  is  noblest  in  joy  or  sorrow.  What  is  called 
poetic  insight  is  the  gift  of  discerning,  in  this  sphere  of  strangely- 
mingled  elements,  the  beauty  and  the  majesty  which  are  com- 
pelled to  assume  a  garb  bo  sordid." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  deny  the  gift  of  "  poetic  insight"  to  this 
mixture  of  admirable  detail  with  something  at  once  higher  and 
deeper.  Balzac,  the  great  novelist  of  modern  France,  known 
only  to  those  among  us  who  thoroughly  possess  his  language,  for 
he  is  untranslated  and  untranslatable,  has  in  certain  romances  of 
provincial  life  the  same  perfection  of  Dutch  painting  and  of 
nomely  tragedy.     But  Mr.  Hawthorne  is  free  from  Balzac's  scoff. 


526  RKCOL  LECTION'S    OF 

The  story  of  the  first  day  behind  the  counter  poes  on  with  inimi- 
table truth,  minuteness  and  variety.  The  cracked  boll  tinkles,  and 
the  poor  old  lady  totters  nervously  to  her  post.  Her  first  customer 
is  a  friendly  one  ;  a  young  artist — an  artist  after  a  somewhat 
American  fashion,  a  Daguerreotypist — who  inhabited  one  of  thie 
Seven  Gables,  and  affords  a  capital  specimen  of  the  adventurous 
youth  of  the  United  States.  Manly,  comely,  cheerful,  kind,  brim- 
ful of  determined  energy  and  common  sense,  he  has  already  tried 
some  half-score  of  careers — schoolmaster,  editor,  agent,  engineer 
— and  is  sure  to  conquer  fortune  at  last.  Their  conversation  lets 
us  into  much  of  the  story,  and  shows,  besides,  that  poor  Hepzibah 
will  not  make  her  fortune  by  her  shop,  for  he  comes  to  purchase 
biscuits,  and  she  begs  to  be  for  one  moment  a  gentlewoman,  and 
not  be  forced  into  accepting  money  from  her  only  friend.  Then 
comes  an  old,  humble,  sauntering  neighbor,  who  again  helps  on 
the  narrative ;  then  a  greedy  boy,  who  finding  the  cent  which 
he  offered  for  the  gingerbread  Jim  Crow  refused  from  pure  dis- 
gust, returns  in  half  an  hour  and  eats  the  elephant.  Then  the 
rich  Judge  passes  ;  and  Hepzibah  trembles  as  his  shadow  darkens 
the  window — and  then  the  common  crew. 

"  Customers  came  in  as  the  forenoon  advanced,  but  rather 
slowly  ;  in  some  cases  too,  it  must  be  owned,  with  little  satisfac- 
tion either  to  themselves  or  Miss  Hepzibah  ;  nor,  on  the  whole, 
with  an  aggregate  of  very  rich  emolument  to  the  till.  A  little 
girl,  sent  by  her  m.other  to  match  a  skein  of  cotton  thread  of  a 
peculiar  hue,  took  one  that  the  near-sighted  old  lady  pronounced 
extremely  like,  but  very  soon  came  running  back  with  a  blunt 
and  cross  message  that  it  would  not  do,  and  besides,  was  very 
rotten  !  Then  there  was  a  pale,  care-wrinkled  woman,  not  old, 
but  haggard,  and  already  with  streaks  of  gray  among  her  hair, 
like  silver  ribbons  ;  one  of  those  women,  naturally  delicate,  whom 
you  at  once  recognize  as  worn  to  death  by  a  brute,  probably  a 
drunken  brute,  of  a  husband,  and  at  least  nine  children.  She 
wanted  a  few  pounds  of  flour,  and  offered  the  money,  which  the 
decayed  gentlewoman  silently  rejected,  and  gave  the  poor  soul 
better  measure  than  if  she  had  taken  it.  Shortly  afterward,  a 
man  in  a  blue  cotton  frock,  much  soiled,  came  in  and  bought  a 
pipe,  filling  the  whole  shop  meanwhile  with  the  hot  odor  of 
strong  drink,  not  only  exhaled  in  the  torrid  atmosphere  of  his 
breath,  but  oozing  out  of  his  whole  system,  like  an  inflammable 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  527 

gas.  It  was  impressed  on  Hepzibah's  mind  that  this  was  the 
husband  of  the  care-wrinkled  woman.  He  asked  for  a  paper  of 
tobacco,  and  as  she  had  neglected  to  provide  herself  with  the  ar- 
ticle, her  brutal  customer  dashed  down  his  newly-purchased  pipe, 
and  left  the  shop,  muttering  some  unintelligible  words,  which 
had  the  tone  and  bitterness  of  a  curse.  Hereupon  Hepzibah 
threw  up  her  eyes,  unintentionally  scowling  in  the  face  of  Provi- 
dence. 

"  No  less  than  five  persons  during  the  forenoon  inquired  for 
ginger-beer  or  root-beer,  or  any  drink  of  a  similar  beverage,  and 
obtaining  nothing  of  the  kind,  wentoti'in  exceedingly  bad  humor. 
Three  of  them  left  the  door  open  ;  but  the  other  two  pulled  it  so 
spitefully  in  going  out,  that  it  played  the  very  duse  with  Hepzi- 
bah's nerves.  A  round,  bustling,  fire-ruddy  housewife  of  the 
neighborhood  burst  breathless  into  the  shop,  fiercely  demanding 
yeast  ;  and  when  the  poor  gentlewoman,  with  her  cold  shyness 
of  manner,  gave  her  customer  to  understand  that  she  did  not 
keep  the  article,  this  very  capable  housekeeper  took  upon  herself 
to  administer  a  regular  rebuke  ; 

"  '  A  cent  shop  and  no  yeast  I'  quoth  she  ;  '  that  will  never  do  ! 
Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  ?  Your  loaf  will  never  rise,  no 
more  than  mine  will  to-day.  You  had  better  shut  up  shop  at 
once.' 

"  '  Well,'  said  Hepzibah,  heaving  a  deep  sigh, '  perhaps  I  had.'  " 

And  so  the  day  wears  on.  Some  come  obviously  from  curios- 
ity, and  the  old  lady  loses  her  temper,  and  becomes  more  and 
more  bewildered. 

"  Her  final  operation  was  with  the  little  devourer  of  Jim  Crow 
and  the  elephant,  who  now  proposed  to  eat  a  camel.  In  her 
tribulation,  she  offered  him  first  a  wooden  dragoon,  and  next  a 
handful  of  marbles  ;  neither  of  which  being  adapted  to  his  else 
omnivorous  appetite,  she  hastily  held  out  her  whole  remaining 
stock  of  natural  history  in  gingerbread,  and  huddled  the  small 
customer  out  of  the  shop.  She  then  muffled  the  bell  in  an  un- 
finished stocking,  and  put  up  the  oaken  bar  across  the  door. 

"  During  the  latter  process,  an  omnibus  came  to  a  stand-still 
under  the  branches  of  the  elm-tree.  A  gentleman  alighted  ;  but 
it  was  only  to  offer  his  hand  to  a  young  girl,  whose  slender  figure 
nowise  needing  such  assistance,  now  lightly  descended  the  steps, 
and  made  an  airy  little  jump  from  the  final  one  to  the  side-walk. 


023  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

She  rewarded  her  cavalier  with  a  smile,  the  cheery  glow  of  which 
was  seen  reflected  on  his  own  face  as  he  re  entered  the  vehicle. 
The  girl  then  turned  toward  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  ;  to 
the  door  of  which  meanwhile — not  the  shop-door,  but  the  antique 
portal — the  omnibus  man  had  carried  a  light  trunk  and  a  band- 
box. First  giving  a  sharp  rap  of  the  old  iron  knocker,  he  left  his 
passenger  and  her  luggage  at  the  door-step  and  departed. 

"  '  Who  can  it  be  ?'  thought  Hepzibah,  who  had  been  screw- 
ing her  visual  organs  into  the  acutest  focus  of  which  they  were 
capable.     '  The  girl  must  have  mistaken  the  house.' 

"  She  stole  softly  into  the  hall,  and,  herself  invisible,  gazed 
through  the  side-lights  of  the  portal  at  the  young,  blooming,  and 
verj-  cheerful  face  which  presented  itself  for  admittance  into  the 
gloomy  old  mansion.  It  was  a  face  to  'which  almost  any  door 
would  have  opened  of  its  own  accord. 

"  The  young  girl,  so  fresh,  so  unconventional,  and  yet  so  orderly 
and  so  obedient  to  common  rules  as  you  at  once  recognize  her  to 
be,  was  widely  in  contrast  at  that  moment  with  every  thing  about 
her.  The  sordid  and  ugly  luxuriance  of  gigantic  weeds  that  grew 
in  the  angle  of  the  house,  and  the  heavy  projection  that  over- 
shadowed her,  and  the  time-worn  framework  of  the  door,  none  of 
these  things  belonged  to  her  sphere.  But  even  as  a  ray  of  sun- 
shine, fall  into  what  dismal  place  it  may,  instantaneously  creates 
for  itself  a  propriety  in  being  there,  so  did  it  seem  altogether  fit 
that  the  girl  should  be  standing  at  the  threshold.  It  was  no  less 
evidently  proper  that  the  door  should  swing  open  to  admit  her. 
The  maiden  lady  herself,  sternly  inhospitable  in  her  first  purposes, 
soon  began  to  feel  that  the  bolt  ought  to  be  shoved  back,  and  the 
rusty  key  be  turned  in  the  reluctant  lock. 

"  '  Can  it  be  PhcEbe  V  questioned  she  within  herself.  '  It  must 
be  little  Phoebe  ;  for  it  can  be  nobody  else  ;  and  there  is  a  look 
of  her  father  about  her  too  !  Well  1  she  must  have  a  night's 
lodging  I  suppose,  and  to-morrow  the  child  shall  go  back  to  her 
mother.' 

"  Phoebe  Pyncheon  slept,  on  the  night  of  her  arrival,  in  a  cham- 
ber that  looked  do\\Ti  on  the  garden  of  the  old  house.  It  fronted 
toward  the  east,  so  that  at  a  very^  seasonable  hour  a  glowing 
crimson  light  came  flooding  through  the  \i4ndow,  and  bathed  the 
dingy  ceiling  and  paper-hangings  of  its  own  hue.  There  were 
curtains  to  Phoebe's  bed  ;  a  dark  antique  canopy  and  ponderous 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  529 

festoons,  of  a  stuff  that  had  been  magnificent  in  its  time,  but 
which  now  brooded  over  the  girl  Hke  a  cloud,  making  a  night  in 
that  one  corner,  while  elsewhere  it  was  beginning  to  be  day. 
The  morning  light,  however,  soon  stole  into  the  aperture  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed  betwixt  those  faded  curtains.  Finding  the  new 
guest  there  with  a  bloom  on  the  cheeks  like  the  morning's  own, 
and  a  gentle  stir  of  departing  slumber  in  her  limbs,  as  when  an 
early  breeze  moves  the  foliage,  the  dawn  kissed  her  brow.  It 
was  the  caress  which  a  dewy  maiden — such  as  the  dawn  is  im- 
mortally— gives  to  her  sleeping  sister,  partly  from  the  impulse  of 
irresistible  fondness,  and  partly  as  a  pretty  hint  that  it  is  time  now 
to  unclose  her  eyes. 

"  At  the  touch  of  those  lips  of  light  Phcebe  quietly  awoke,  and 
for  a  moment  did  not  recognize  where  she  was,  nor  how  those 
heavy  curtains  chanced  to  be  festooned  around  her.  Nothing  in- 
deed was  absolutely  plain  to  her,  except  that  it  was  now  early 
morning,  and  that,  whatever  might  happen  next,  it  was  proper 
first  of  all  to  get  up  and  say  her  prayers.  She  was  the  more  in- 
clined to  devotion  from  the  grim  aspect  of  the  chamber  and  its 
furniture,  especially  the  tall  stiff  chairs  ;  one  of  which  stood  close 
to  her  bedside,  and  looked  as  if  some  old-fashioned  personage  had 
been  sitting  there  all  night,  and  had  vanished  only  just  in  season 
to  e.scape  discovery. 

"  When  Phcfibe  was  quite  dressed,  she  peeped  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  saw  a  rose-bush  in  the  garden.  Being  a  very  tall  one, 
and  of  luxuriant  growth,  it  had  been  propped  up  against  the  side 
of  the  house,  and  was  literally  covered  with  a  rare  and  very  beau- 
tiful species  of  white  rose.  A  large  portion  of  them,  as  the  girl 
afterward  discovered,  had  blight  or  mildew  at  their  hearts  ;  but 
viewed  at  a  fair  distance,  the  whole  rose-bush  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  brought  from  Eden  that  very  summer,  together  with  the 
mold  in  which  it  grew.  The  truth  was,  nevertheless,  that  it  had 
been  planted  by  Alice  Pyncheon — she  was  Pha;be's  grcat-great- 
grand-aunt — in  soil  which,  reckoning  only  its  cultivation  as  a 
garden-plat,  was  now  unctuous  with  nearly  two  hundred  years  of 
vegetable  decay.  Growing  as  they  did,  however,  out  of  the  old 
earth,  the  flowers  still  sent  a  fresh  and  sweet  incense  up  to  their 
Creator  ;  nor  could  it  have  been  the  less  pure  and  acceptable  be- 
cause Phoebe's  young  breath  mingled  with  it,  as  the  fragrance 
floated  past  the  window.      Hastening  down  the  creaking  and  car- 

Z 


530  RKCOLLKCTi    •:>:'    '    F 

petless  staircase,  she  found  her  way  into  the  garden,  gathered 
scme  of  the  most  perfect  of  the  roses,  and  brought  them  to  her 
chamber. 

'•  Little  Phoebe  was  one  of  those  persons  who  possess,  as  their 
exclusive  patrimony,  the  gift  of  practical  arrangement.  It  is  a 
kind  of  natural  magic  that  enables  these  favored  ones  to  bring 
cut  the  hidden  capabilities  of  things  around  them  ;  and  particu- 
larlv  to  give  a  look  of  comfort  and  habitableness  to  any  place 
which,  for  however  brief  a  period,  may  happen  to  be  their  home. 
A  wild  hut  of  underbrush,  tossed  together  by  wayfarers  through 
the  primitive  forest,  would  acquire  the  home  aspect  by  one  night's 
lodsins  of  such  a  woman,  and  would  retain  it  long  after  her  quiet 
fitnire  had  disappeared  into  the  surrounding  shade.  Xo  less  a 
portion  of  such  homely  witchcraft  was  requisite  to  reclaim,  as  it 
were,  Phoebe's  waste,  cheerless,  dusky  chamber,  which  had  been 
untenanted  so  long,  except  by  spiders,  and  mice,  and  rats,  and 
ghosts,  that  it  was  all  overgrown  with  the  desolation  which 
watches  to  obliterate  cvery  trace  of  men's  happier  homes.  "UTiat 
was  precisely  Phoebe's  process  we  find  it  impossible  to  say.  She 
appeared  to  have  no  preliminary  design,  but  gave  a  touch  here 
and  another  there  ;  brought  some  articles  of  furniture  to  light 
and  dragged  others  into  the  shadow  ;  looped  up  or  let  down  a 
window-curtain  :  and  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour  had  fully 
succeeded  in  throwing  a  kindly  and  htspitable  smile  over  the 
apartment. 

"  There  was  still  another  peculiarity  of  this  inscrutable  charm. 
The  bedchamber,  no  doubt,  was  a  chamber  of  very  great  and 
Taried  experience  as  a  scene  of  human  life.  Here  had  come  the 
bridegroom  with  his  bride ;  new  immortals  bad  here  draTSTi  their 
earliest  breath  ;  and  here  the  old  had  died.  But  whether  it  were 
the  white  roses,  or  whatever  the  subtile  influence  might  be.  a 
person  of  delicate  instinct  would  have  known  at  once  that  it  was 
now  a  maiden's  bedchamber,  and  had  been  purified  of  all  former 
evil  and  sorrow  by  her  sweet  breath  and  happy  thoughts." 

There  is  a  touch  of  Goethe's  "ilargaret,"  the  ilargaret  of 
"  Faust,"  in  the  last  paragraph.  But  "  Phoebe"  is  a  truly  origi- 
nal conception.  To  quote  her  thousand  prettinesses  of  thought 
and  action,  would  be  to  copy  half  the  volume.  Suffice  it  that 
she  stays  with  her  good  old  cross  cousin  ;  and  that,  under  her 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  531 

auspices,  the  shop  flourishes,  and  the  tottering  mansion  loses  half 
its  ploom. 

P.S.  I  have  just  received  an  American  reprint  of  Mr.  Haw- 
thorne's earliest  volumes,  "  Twice  Told  Tales,"  two  or  three  of 
which  are  as  fine  as  his  larger  efforts — one  especially,  in  which  a 
story  is  told  hy  a  succession  of  unspoken  sounds  as  clearly  as  it 
could  have  been  by  pictures.  It  is  one  of  Messrs.  Ticknor,  Reed 
and  Field's  beautiful  editions,  and  the  prefece  and  portrait  are 
most  interesting.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  modesty  of  that  pre- 
face, and  I  am  told  that  Mr.  Hawthorne  is  astonished  at  his  own 
reputation,  and  thinks  himself  the  most  over-rated  man  in 
America.  Then  that  portrait — what  a  head  I  and  he  is  said  to 
be  of  the  height  and  build  of  Daniel  Webster.  So  much  the 
better.  It  is  well  that  a  fine  intellect  should  be  fitly  lodged  ; 
harmony  is  among  the  rarest. 

Mr.  Havi^horne  is  engaged  on  another  tale,  and  on  a  work  for 
young  people,  which,  from  such  a  man,  will  probably  prove  quite 
as  acceptable  to  children  of  a  larger  growth  as  to  those  for  whom 
it  is  ostensibly  written. 


532  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


XL. 

OLD    POETS. 

ANDREW    MARVELL. 

Andrew  Marvell's  very  name  sug-gpsts  the  idea  of  incor- 
ruptible patriotism.  The  well-known  story  of  his  refusing  a  court 
bribe  by  calling  his  servant  to  prove  that  he  had  dined  three 
times  upon  a  shoulder  of  mutton,  although  probably  apocryphal, 
serves  to  prove  the  notion  universally  entertained  of  the  uncom- 
promising member  for  Hull  ;  unassailable  as  Robespierre  him- 
self to  all  money  temptations,  and  strong  enough  to  have  resisted 
the  subtler  temptations  of  power.  His  learning  too  is  generally 
acknowledged.  He  shared  with  Milton  the  high  and  honorable 
office  of  Latin  Secretary  to  the  Lord  Protector  ;  was  the  cham- 
pion of  the  great  poet's  living  reputation  ;  the  supporter  of  free 
principles  against  all  assailants,  and  is  praised  even  by  Swift,  not 
addicted  to  over-praise,  for  the  keen  wit  and  fiery  eloquence  of 
his  polemical  tracts,  nay,  the  Dean  paid  him  the  still  more  une- 
quivocal compliment  of  imitating  his  style  pretty  closely. 

As  a  poet,  he  is  little  known,  except  to  the  professed  and  un- 
wearied reader  of  old  folios  And  yet  his  poems  possess  many  of 
the  finest  elements  of  popularity  :  a  rich  profusion  of  fancy  which 
almost  dazzles  the  mind  as  bright  colors  dazzle  the  eye  ;  an 
earnestness  and  heartiness  which  do  not  always,  do  not  often 
belong  to  these  flowery  fancies,  but  which  when  found  in  their 
company  add  to  them  inexpressible  vitality  and  savor ;  and  a 
frequent  felicity  of  phrase,  which,  when  once  read,  fixes  itself  in 
the  memory  and  ivill  not  be  forgotten. 

Mixed  with  these  dazzling  qualities  is  much  carelessness  and  a 
prodigality  of  conceits  which  the  stern  Roundhead  ought  to  have 
left  with  other  frippery'  to  his  old  enemies,  the  Cavaliers.  But  it 
was  the  vice  of  the   aere — all    npes   have   their  favorite   lit^'ru.JV 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  533 

sins — and  we  must  not  blame  Marvell  too  severely  for  falling  into 
an  error  to  which  the  very  exuberance  of  his  nature  rendered  him 
peculiarly  prone.  His  mind  was  a  bright  garden,  such  a  garden 
as  he  has  described  so  finely,  and  that  a  few  gaudy  weeds  should 
mingle  with  the  healthier  plants  does  but  serve  to  prove  the  fer- 
tility of  the  soil. 

BERMUDAS. 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied ; 
From  a  small  boat  that  rowed  along 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song. 

AVhat  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze. 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  1 

Where  He  the  huge  sea-monsters  wracks 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 
Safe  from  the  storms  and  prelate's  rage. 

He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring, 
Which  here  enamels  every  thing; 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 

He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night. 
And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows. 

He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet ; 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet ; 
But  apples,  plants  of  such  a  price. 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 

With  cedars,  chosen  by  His  Hand, 
From  Lebanon  He  stores  the  land  ; 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 

He  cast,  of  which  we  rather  boast. 
The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast; 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  Temple  where  to  sound  His  name. 


53i  KEcoLL^:cTlo^:s  of 

oil  lot  our  voice  Ilis  praise  oxalt 
Till  it  shall  reacli  to  llcaveii's  vault, 
■Wiiich  thence,  perhaps,  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexiquo  bay  ! 

Thus  sung  they  in  the  English  boat, 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note  ; 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chimo 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 

THE  GARDEN. 

IIow  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak  or  bays ; 
And  their  incessant  labors  see 
Crowned  from  some  single  herb  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow  verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid ; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close, 
To  weave  the  garland  of  repose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  tliy  sister  dear; 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men. 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  lielow, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow. 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white,  nor  red  was  ever  seen 

So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 

Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame. 

Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name. 

Little,  alas !  they  know  or  heed 

How  far  these  beauties  her  exceed ! 

Fair  trees  !  where'er  your  backs  I  wound. 

No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passion's  heat, 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat. 
The  gods,  who  mortal  beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race. 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so. 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow ; 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed. 
Not  as  a  nymph  but  for  a  seed. 

What  wondrous  life  in  this  I  lead  1 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head ; 


A    LITEKARY     LIFE.  535 

The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine; 
The  nectarine,  the  curious  peach 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Ensnared  with  flowers  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 

Withdraws  into  its  happiness ; 

The  mind,  that  ocean,  where  each  kind 

Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find, 

Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 

Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas; 

Annihilating  all  that's  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside. 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide : 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings. 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings ; 
And,  still  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  garden-state, 
While  man  there  walked  without  a  mate ; 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet ! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there ; 
Two  Paradises  are  in  one, 
To  live  in  Paradise  alone ! 

IIow  well  the  skillful  gardener  drew 

Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new : 

Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 

Does  through  a  fragrant  Zodiac  run : 

And  as  it  works  the  industrious  bee 

Computes  his  time  as  well  as  we. 

How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours, 

Be  reckoned  but  with  herbs  and  flowers  1 

Wicked  person  !  I  was  over  charitable  in  forgiving  his  con- 
ceits. It  is  not  in  woman  to  pardon  his  want  of  gallantry.  One 
can  only  suppose  that  the  unhappy  man  was  an  old  bachelor. 
If  the  last  stanza  but  one  be  provoking  to  female  vanity,  the  last 
of  all  excites  another  feminine  quality,  called  curiosity.     What 


536  KE  COLLECTIONS    OF 

does  the  new  dial  mean  ?  Is  there  really  nothing  new  under  the 
sun  ?  And  had  they  in  the  middle  oi'  the  seventeenth  century 
diseovered  the  horologe  of  Flora  ? 


THE  NYMPH  COMPLAINING  FOR  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  FAWN. 

The  wanton  troopers  riding  by 
Have  shot  my  fawn  and  it  will  die. 
Ungentle  men !  they  can  not  thrive 
Who  killed  thee.     Thou  ne'er  didst  aUve 
Them  any  harm.     Alas  !  nor  could 
Thy  death  to  them  do  any  good. 
I'm  sure  I  never  wished  them  ill ; 
Nor  do  I  for  all  this  ;  nor  will : 
But  if  my  simple  prayer  may  yet 
Prevail  with  Heaven  to  forget 
Thy  murder,  I  will  join  my  tears 
Rather  than  fail.     But  oh,  my  fears  ! 
It  can  not  die  so.     Heaven's  King 
Keeps  register  of  every  thing. 
And  nothing  may  we  use  in  vain : 
Even  beasts  must  be  with  justice  slain. 


Inconstant  Silvio,  when  yet 

I  had  not  found  him  counterfeit, 

One  morning,  (I  remember  well) 

Tied  in  this  silver  chain  and  bell, 

Gave  it  to  me :  nay,  and  I  know 

What  he  said  then  :  I'm  sure  I  do. 

Said  he,  "  Look  how  your  huntsmen  here 

Hath  brought  a  fawn  to  hunt  his  deer." 

But  Silvio  soon  had  me  beguiled. 

This  waxed  tame,  while  he  grew  wild, 

And,  quite  regardless  of  my  smart, 

Left  me  his  fawn  but  took  his  heart. 

Thenceforth  I  set  myself  to  play 

My  solitary  time  away 

With  this,  and  very  well  content 

Could  so  my  idle  life  have  spent ; 

For  it  was  full  of  sport,  and  light 

Of  foot  and  heart ;  and  did  invite 

Me  to  its  game  ;  it  seemed  to  bless 

Itself  in  me.     How  could  I  less 

Than  love  if?     Oh!  I  can  not  be 

Unkind  to  a  beast  that  loveth  me. 

Had  it  lived  long,  I  do  not  know 

Whether  it  too  might  have  done  so 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  537 

As  Silvio  did ;  his  gifts  might  be 

Perhaps  as  false  or  more  than  he, 

But  I  am  sure,  for  aught  that  I 

Could  in  so  short  a  time  espy. 

Thy  love  was  far  more  better  than 

The  love  of  false  and  cruel  man. 

With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar,  first 

I  it  at  my  own  fingers  nursed ; 

And,  as  it  grew  so  every  day 

It  waxed  more  sweet  and  white  than  they: 

It  had  so  sweet  a  breath.     And  oft 

I  blushed  to  see  its  foot  more  soft 

And  white,  shall  I  say  than  my  hand  1 

Nay,  any  lady's  of  the  land. 

It  is  a  wondrous  thing  how  fleet 

'Twas  on  those  little  silver  feet ; 

With  what  a  pretty  skipping  grace 

It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race ; 

And,  when  't  had  left  me  far  away, 

'Twould  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay ; 

For  it  was  nimbler  much  than  hinds, 

And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  wuids. 

I  have  a  garden  of  my  own, 

But  so  with  roses  overgrown 

And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 

To  be  a  little  wilderness. 

And  all  the  spring-time  of  the  year 

It  only  loved  to  be  there. 

Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 

Have  sought  it  oft  where  it  should  lie. 

Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise, 

Find  it,  altliough  before  mine  eyes  j 

For  in  the  flaxen  lilies'  shade 

It  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid ; 

Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed. 

Until  its  lips  e'en  seemed  to  bleed ; 

And  then  to  me  'twould  boldly  trip, 

And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 

But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 

On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill, 

And  its  pure  virgin  limbs  to  fold 

In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold. 

Had  it  lived  long,  it  would  have  been 

Lilies  without,  roses  within. 


Nothing  can  exceed  the  grace,  the  delicate  prettiness  of  this 
little  poem.     There  is  a  trippingness  in  the  measure,  now  stop- 

z* 


538  KECOLLECTIOXS    OF 

ping  short,  now  bounding  on,  which  could  not  have  been  exceeded 
by  the  playful  motions  of"  the  poor  fawn  itself.  We  must  forgive 
his  want  of  gallantry.  It  must  have  been  all  pretense.  No  true 
woman-hater  could  so  have  embodied  a  feeling  peculiar  to  the 
sex,  the  innocent  love  of  a  young  girl  for  her  innocent  pet. 

I  must  find  room  for  a  few  stanzas  of  Marvell's  Horatian  Ode 
upon  Cromwell's  return  from  Ireland.  Fine  as  the  praise  of 
Cromwell  is,  it  yields  in  grandeur  and  beauty  to  the  tribute  paid 
by  the  poet  to  the  demeanor  of  the  King  upon  the  scafTold  ;  by 
far  the  noblest  of  the  many  panegyrics  upon  the  martyred  King. 

'Tis  time  to  leave  the  books  in  dust, 
And  oil  the  unused  armor's  rust; 

Removing  from  the  wall 

The  corslet  of  the  hall. 

So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease, 
In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace, 

But  through  adventurous  war 

Urged  his  active  star: 


And  if  we  would  speak  true 
Much  to  the  man  is  due, 

Who  from  his  private  gardens,  where 
He  hved  reserved  and  austere, 
(As  if  his  highest  plot 
To  plant  the  bergamot,) 

Could  by  industrious  valor  clinib 
To  win  the  great  work  of  Time, 

And  cast  the  kingdoms  old 

Into  another  mold ! 

Though  justice  against  fate  complain 

And  plead  the  ancient  rights  in  vain. 

But  those  do  hold  or  break 

As  men  are  strong  or  weak. 

Nature  that  hateth  emptiness 

Allows  of  penetration  less. 

And  therefore  must  make  room 
Where  greater  spirits  come. 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  539 

What  field  of  all  the  civil  war 
Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scarl 

Aud  Hampton  shows  what  part 

He  had  of  wiser  art : 

Where,  twining  civil  fears  with  hope, 
He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope. 

That  Charles  himself  might  chase 

To  Carisbrooke's  narrow  case; 

That  thence  the  royal  actor  borne 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn. 

While  round  the  armed  bands 

Did  clap  their  bloody  hands, 

He  nothing  common  did  or  mean 
Upon  that  memorable  scene, 

But  with  his  keener  eye 

The  axe's  edge  did  try ; 

Nor  called  the  gods,  with  vulgar  spite, 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right ; 

But  bowed  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 

And  he  who  wrote  this  was  Cromwell's  Latin  Secretary  I  and 
Cromwell's  other  Latin  Secretary  was  Milton  1  There  have  been 
many  praises  of  the  Lord  Protector  written  latterly,  but  these  two 
facts  seem  to  me  worth  them  all. 


540  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


XLI. 

SCOTTISH    rOETS. 

AVILLIAM    MOTHERWELL. 

Two  of  tlie  ballads  of  William  Motherwell  are  among  the 
most  beautiful  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  so  full  of  lyrical  beauty  ; 
and  yet  the  one  which  is  the  most  touching  is  scarcely  known, 
except  to  a  few  lovers  of  poetry.  "  Jeanie  Morrison,"  indeed, 
has  an  extensive  popularity  in  Scotland,  and  yet  even  that  charm- 
ing song  is  comparatively  little  known  in  this  country. 

Burns  is  the  only  poet  with  whom,  for  tenderness  and  pathos, 
Motherwell  can  be  compared.  The  elder  bard  has  written  much 
more  largely,  is  more  various,  more  fier}',  more  abundant ;  but  I 
doubt  if  there  be  in  the  whole  of  his  collection  any  thing  so  ex- 
quisitely finished,  so  free  from  a  line  too  many,  or  a  word  out  of 
place,  as  the  two  great  ballads  of  Motherwell.  And  let  young 
writers  observe  that  this  finish  was  the  result,  not  of  a  curious 
felicity,  but  of  the  nicest  elaboration.  By  touching  and  retouch- 
ing, during  many  years,  did  "  Jeanie  Morrison"  attain  her  per- 
fection, and  yet  how  completely  has  art  concealed  art  !  How 
entirely  does  that  charming  song  appear  like  an  irrepressible  gush 
of  feeling  that  would  find  vent.  In  "  My  heid  is  like  to  rend, 
Willie,"  the  appearance  of  spontaneity  is  still  more  striking,  as 
the  passion  is  more  intense, — intense,  indeed,  almost  to  pain- 
fulness. 

Like  Bums,  Motherwell  died  before  he  attained  his  fortieth 
year,  and  like  him,  too,  although  a  partisan  of  far  difierent  opin- 
ions, he  was  ardently  engaged  in  political  discussion  as  the  editor 
of  a  Tory  newspaper  in  Glasgow.  He  was  even  the  Secretary 
of  an  Institution  that  sounds  strangely  in  English  ears — a  Scotch 
Orange  Lodge.  I  notice  these  facts  only  to  observe,  that  they 
are  already  almost  forgotten.     The  elements   of  bitterness  and 


A     LITERARY    LIFE.  541 

hatred,  in  which  the  pohtician  revels,  Hve  throuf^h  their  little 
day,  then  pass  away  forever  :  Avhile  the  deep  and  pure  feelings 
of  a  true  poet  are  imperishahle. 

As  with  "  Percy's  Reliques,"  my  own  copy  of  Motherwell  has 
to  me  an  interest  beside  that  of  its  high  literary  merits.  If  I 
would  explain  the  source  of  that  interest,  I  must  even  tell  the 
story,  luckily  a  very  short  one. 

Three  years  ago  a  friend,  to  whom  I  owe  a  thousand  obliga- 
tions of  all  sorts  and  kinds,  posted  London  over  to  procure  this 
volume.  Now  my  friend  is  a  man  of  book-shops  and  book-stalls, 
but  only  one  copy  could  he  meet  with,  and  that  was  neither 
Scotch  nor  English,  but  American,  from  the  great  Boston  pub- 
lishers, Ticknor  and  Company.  The  book  became  immediately 
a  favorite,  and  was  laid  on  the  table — a  phrase  which  in  my  lit- 
tle drawing-room  has  a  very  different  sense  from  that  which  it 
bears  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

One  fine  summer  afternoon,  shortly  after  I  had  made  this  ac- 
quisition, two  young  Americans  made  their  appearance,  with 
letters  of  introduction  from  some  honored  friends.  Tliere  was  no 
mention  of  profession  or  calling,  but  I  soon  found  that  they  were 
not  only  men  of  intelligence  and  education,  but  of  literary  taste 
and  knowledge  ;  one  especially  had  the  look,  the  air,  the  conver- 
sation of  a  poet.  We  talked  on  many  subjects,  and  got  at  last  to 
the  delicate  question  of  American  reprints  of  English  authors  ;  on 
which,  much  to  their  delight,  and  a  little  to  their  surprise,  there 
was  no  disagreement  ;  I  for  my  poor  part  pleading  guilty  to  the 
taking  pleasure  in  such  a  difiusion  of  my  humble  works.  "  Be- 
side," continued  I,  "  you  send  us  better  things — things  otherwise 
unattainable.  I  could  only  procure  the  fine  poems  of  Motherwell 
in  this  Boston  edition."  My  two  visitors  smiled  at  each  other. 
"  This  is  a  most  singular  coincidence,"  cried  the  one  whom  I 
knew  by  instinct  to  be  a  poet.  "  I  am  a  younger  partner  in  this 
Boston  hou.se,  and  at  my  pressing  instance  this  book  was  re- 
printed.    I  can  not  tell  you  how  pleased  I  am  to  see  it  here  I" 

Mr.  Field's  visit  was  necessarily  brief;  but  that  short  inter- 
view has  laid  the  foundation  of  a  friendship  which  will,  1  think, 
last  as  long  as  my  frail  life,  and  of  which  the  benefit  is  all  on 
my  side.  He  sends  me  charming  letters,  verses  which  are  fast 
ripening  into  true  poetry,  excellent  books;  and  this  autumn  he 
brought  back  himself,  and  came  to  pay  me  a  visit ;  and  he  must 


542  KECOLLECTIONS    OF 

come  again,  lor  ol  all  the  kindnesses  with  which  he  loads  mc,  I 
like  his  company  best. 

My  lieid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie, 

My  heart  is  like  to  break, — 
I'm  wcarin'  afF  my  feet,  Willie, 

I'm  dying  for  your  sake ! 
0  lay  your  cheek  to  mine,  Willie, 

Your  hand  on  my  hriest-bane, — 
0  say  ye'll  think  on  me,  Willie, 

When  I  am  duid  and  gane! 

It's  vain  to  comfort  me,  Willie, 

Sair  gi'ief  maun  hae  its  will, — 
But  let  me  rest  upon  your  briest, 

To  sob  and  greet  my  fill. 
Let  me  sit  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

Let  me  shed  by  your  hair, 
And  look  into  the  face,  Willie, 

I  never  sail  see  mair  I 

I'm  sittin'  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

For  the  last  time  in  my  life, — 
A  puir  heart-broken  thing,  Willie, 

A  mither,  yet  nae  wife. 
Ay,  press  your  hand  upon  my  heart, 

And  press  it  mair  and  mair, — 
Or  it  will  burst  the  silken  twine, 

Sae  strong  is  its  despair! 

Oh  wae's  me  for  the  love,  Willie, 

When  we  thegither  met, — 
Oh  wae's  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 

That  our  first  tryst  was  set ! 
Oh  wae's  me  for  the  loanin'  green 

Where  we  were  wont  to  gae, — 
And  wae's  me  for  the  dcstinie 

That  gart  me  love  thee  sae  ! 

Oh  !  dinna  mind  my  words,  Willie, 

I  donna  seek  to  blame, — 
But  oh !  it's  hard  to  live,  Willie, 

And  dree  a  warld's  shame  ! 
Het  tears  are  hailin'  o'er  your  cheek 

And  hailin'  o'er  your  chin ; 
Why  weep  ye  sae  for  worthlessness. 

For  sorrow  and  for  sin  1 

I'm  weary  o'  this  warld,  Willie, 
And  sick  wi'  a'  I  see, — 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  54:3 

I  canna  live  as  I  hae  lived, 

And  be  as  I  should  be. 
But  fauld  unto  your  heart,  Willie, 

The  heart  that  still  is  thine, — 
And  kiss  once  mair  the  white,  white  cheek 

Ye  said  was  red  lang  syne. 

A  stoun'  gaes  through  my  heid,  Willie, 

A  sair  stoun'  through  my  heart, — 
Oh !  hand  me  up  and  let  me  kiss 

Thy  brow  ere  we  twa  pairt. 
Anither,  and  anither  j'et. 

How  fast  my  heart-strings  break ! 
Fareweel !  fareweel !  through  yon  kirkyard 

Step  lichtly  for  my  sake ! 

The  loo'rock  in  the  lift,  Willie, 

That  lilts  far  ower  our  heid. 
Will  sing  the  morn  as  merrilie 

Abuve  the  clay-cauld  deid  ; 
And  this  green  turf  we're  sittin'  on 

Wi'  dew-draps  skimmerin'  sheen. 
Will  hap  the  heart  that  luvit  thee 

As  warld  hae  seldom  seen. 

But  oh  !  remember  me,  Willie, 

On  land  where'er  ye  be, — 
And  oh !  think  on  the  leal,  leal  heart. 

That  ne'er  luvit  aue  but  thee ! 
And  oh !  think  on  the  cauld,  cauld  mools. 

That  file  my  yellow  hair, — 
That  kiss  the  cheek,  and  kiss  the  chin 

Ye  never  sail  kiss  mair! 

The  following  Cavalier  Song  was  first  given  by  Motherwell  as 
an  original  manuscript  by  Lovelace,  accidentally  discovered  on  a 
fly-leaf  of  his  poems.  The  story  found  believers.  They  ought  to 
have  seen  that  the  imitation,  though  very  skillful,  was  too  close. 
Lovelace  was  the  last  man  in  the  woi-ld  to  have  repeated  bis  own 
turns  of  phrase. 

A  steede !  a  steede  of  matchless  speed, 

A  sword  of  metal  kccne  ! 
All  else  to  noble  heartes  is  drossc. 

All  else  on  earth  is  meano. 
The  neighyinge  of  the  war-horse  prowde. 

The  rowlinge  of  the  drum. 
The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  lowde, 

Be  soundes  from  heaven  that  come. 


644  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

And  uh  !   tlio  thundering  jirosse  of  knightes 
When  as  tlieir  war-cryes  swell, 

May  roll  from  heaven  an  angel  brighte, 
And  rouse  a  fiend  from  hell. 

Then  mounte  !  then  mounte  brave  gallants,  all, 

And  don  your  hclmes  amaine ; 
Death's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe. 
No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 

AVhen  the  sword-hilt's  in  our  hand, — 
Heart  whole  we'll  part,  and  no  whit  siglic 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land ; 
Let  piping  swaine  and  craven  wight 

Thus  weep  and  puling  crye. 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 

And  Jsero-like  to  die  I 

JEANIE  MORRISON. 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day ! 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  oAver  my  path 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears : 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part; 
Sweet  time  !  sad  time  !  twa  bairns  at  schule, 

Twa  bairns  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear ; 
And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remembered  ever  mair. 

1  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 
When  sitting  on  that  bink, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  545 

Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loop  locked  in  loop, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think  i 
When  baith  ben  doun  ower  ae  braid  page 

Wi'  ae  bulk  on  our  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

Oh  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame. 
Whene'er  the  schule-M^eans  laughin'  said 

We  decked  thegither  hame  ] 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays, 

(The  scule  then  skail't  at  noon,) 
When  we  ran  off  to  speel  the  braes, 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  1 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea. 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

0'  schule-time  and  o'  thee. 
0  moruin'  life  !    0  mornin'  luve  ! 

0  lichtsome  days  and  lang. 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 

Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang. 

Oh,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  oft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside. 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  1 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet ; 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood. 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees. 
And  wo  with  nature's  heart  in  tune 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And,  on  the  knowe  abunc  the  burn, 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
r  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinklcd  doun  your  cheek. 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak  ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  wore  fresh  and  young. 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth 

Unsyllabled,  unsung ! 


046  K  E  C  O  J.  L  E  C  T  IONS    VF 

I  inarvui'l,  .h'aiiio  Morrison, 

Gin  I  lino  been  to  tliee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thoelits 

As  j-e  hac  been  to  me  1 
Oh  !  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  1 
Oh  !  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  lang  syne  1 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way  ; 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

Oh  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young, 
I've  never  seen  your  face  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  die. 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

0'  bygane  days  and  me ! 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  647 


XLII. 

GREAT    PROSE    WRITERS. 

LORD    BACON JOHN    MILTON JEREMY    TAYLOR JOHN    RUSKIN. 

Of  the  many  illustrious  prose  writers  who  adorned  the  reigns 
of  Elizabeth  and  James  the  First,  Bacon  is  the  one  whose  shrewd- 
ness, and  power,  and  admirable  good  sense  have  left  the  deepest 
traces  in  our  literature.  His  Essays  are  still  read  with  avidily 
and  delight,  every  fresh  perusal  bringing  forth  fresh  proofs  of  his 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  felicity  of  language.  We  can 
not  but  be  grateful  to  the  author,  however  we  may  dislike  as  a 
man  the  treacherous  friend  of  Essex  and  the  cringing  parasite  of 
James. 

I  do  not  know  any  single  passage  that  more  advantageously 
displays  his  fullness  and  richness  of  thought  and  of  style  than  this 
on  the  use  of  study. 

"  Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability.  Their 
chief  use  for  delight  is  in  privateness  and  retiring  ;  for  ornament 
is  in  discourse  ;  and  for  ability  is  in  the  judgment  and  disposition 
of  business;  for  expert  men  can  execute,  and  perhaps  judge  of 
particulars  one  by  one  ;  but  the  general  counsels,  and  the  plots, 
and  marshaling  of  affairs  come  best  from  those  that  are  learned. 
To  spend  too  much  time  in  studies  is  sloth  ;  to  use  them  too  much 
for  ornament  is  affectation;  to  make  judgment  wholly  by  their 
rules  is  the  humor  of  a  scholar.  They  perfect  nature,  and  are 
perfected  by  experience  ;  for  natural  abilities  are  like  natural 
plants,  that  need  pruning  by  study  ;  and  studies  themselves  do 
give  forth  directions  too  much  at  large,  except  they  be  bounded 
in  by  experience.  Crafty  men  contemn  studies,  simple  meu 
admire  them,  and  wise  men  use  them  ;  for  they  teach  not  their 
own  use  ;  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without  them  and  above  them, 
won  by  observation.     Read,  not  to  contradict  and  confute,  nor  to 


548  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

believe  and  take  lor  pranteil,  nor  to  Iwul  talk  and  discourse,  but 
to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  bo 
swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested:  that  is, 
some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts  ;  others  to  be  read,  but 
not  curiously  ;  and  some  few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  without 
diligence  and  attention.  Some  books,  also,  may  be  read  by 
deputy,  and  extracts  made  of  them  by  others  ;  but  that  would  be 
only  in  the  less  important  arguments,  and  the  meaner  sort  of 
books  ;  else  distilled  books  are  like  common  distilled  waters,  flashy 
things.  Reading  maketh  a  full  man,  conference  a  ready  man, 
and  writing  an  exact  man  ;  and,  therefore,  if  a  man  write  little, 
he  had  need  have  a  great  memory ;  if  he  confer  little,  he  had 
need  have  a  present  wit ;  and  if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have 
much  cunning  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not." 

I  add  one  very  fine  illustration  : 

"  If  the  invention  of  the  ship  was  thought  so  noble,  which 
carrieth  riches  and  commodities  from  place  to  place,  and  con- 
sociateth  the  most  remote  regions  in  participation  of  their  fruits, 
how  much  more  are  letters  to  be  magnified,  which  as  ships  pass 
through  the  vast  sea  of  Time,  and  make  ages  so  distant  partici- 
pate of  the  wisdom,  illuminations,  and  inventions,  the  one  of  the 
other!" 

In  John  Milton's  grand  and  holy  fame  there  is  no  alloy.  The 
man  was  as  great  and  pure  as  the  author.  I  am  not  sure  whether 
(always  excepting  the  minor  poems)  I  do  not  prefer  the  stately 
and  weighty  march  of  his  prose,  even  to  his  lofty  and  resounding 
verse.  I  select  some  noble  passages  from  his  "  Appeal  for  the 
Liberty  of  Unlicensed  Printing." 

"  I  do  not  deny  but  it  is  of  the  greatest  concernment  in  the 
Church  and  Commonwealth  to  have  a  vigilant  eye  how  books  de- 
mean themselves,  as  well  as  men  ;  and  therefore  to  confine,  im- 
prison, and  do  sharpest  justice  on  them  as  malefactors  ;  for  books 
are  not  absolutely  dead  things,  but  do  contain  a  potency  of  life  in 
them,  to  be  as  active  as  that  soul  whose  progeny  they  are  ;  nay, 
they  do  preserve  as  in  a  phial  the  purest  efficacy  and  extraction 
of  that  which  bred  them.  I  know  they  are  as  lively,  as  vigorously 
{)roductive  as  those  fabulous  dragons'  teeth  ;  and  being  sown  up 
and  down  may  chance  to  spring  up  armed  men  ;  and  yet  on  the 
other  hand,  unless  wariness  be  used,  as  good  almost  kill  a  man  as 
kill  a  good  book  :  who  kills  a  man,  kills  a  reasonable  creature, 


A    LITERARY    LIFE.  549 

God's  image  ;  but  he  who  kills  a  good  book,  kills  reason  itself, 
kills  the  image  of  God,  as  it  were,  in  the  eye.  Many  a  man  lives 
a  burden  to  the  earth  ;  but  a  good  book  is  the  precious  life-blood 
of  a  master-spirit,  embalmed  and  treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  life 
beyond  life  :  'Tis  true  no  age  can  restore  a  life,  whereof  perhaps 
there  is  no  great  loss  ;  and  revolutions  of  ages  do  not  often  recover 
the  loss  of  a  rejected  truth,  for  the  want  of  which  whole  nations 
fare  the  worse.  We  should  be  wary,  therefore,  what  persecution 
we  raise  against  the  living  labors  of  public  men,  how  spill  that 
treasured  life  of  man  preserved  and  stored  up  in  books,  since  we 
see  what  a  homicide  may  be  thus  committed,  sometimes  a  kind 
of  martyrdom  ;  and  if  it  extend  to  the  whole  impression  a  kind 
of  massacre,  whereof  the  execution  ends  not  in  the  slaying  an 
elemental  life,  but  strikes  at  that  ethereal  and  soft  essence,  the 
breath  of  reason  itself,  slays  an  immortality  rather  than  a  life. 


"  Good  and  evil  we  know  in  the  field  of  this  world  grow  up 
together  almost  inseparably  ;  and  the  knowledge  of  good  is  so  in- 
volved and  interwoven  with  the  knowledge  of  evil,  and  in  so 
many  cunning  resemblances  hardly  to  be  discerned,  that  those  con- 
fused seeds  which  were  imposed  upon  Psyche  as  an  incessant  labor 
to  cull  out  and  sort  asunder,  were  not  more  intermixed.  It  was 
from  out  the  rind  of  one  apple  tasted  that  the  knowledge  of  good 
and  evil,  as  two  twins  cleaving  together,  leaped  forth  into  the 
world.  And  perhaps  this  is  that  doom  which  Adam  fell  into  of 
knowing  good  and  evil,  that  is  to  say,  of  knowing  good  by  evil. 
As,  therefore,  the  state  of  man  now  is,  what  wisdom  can  there  be 
to  choose,  what  continence  to  forbear,  without  the  knowledge  of 
evil  ?  He  that  can  apprehend  and  consider  vice  with  all  her  baits 
and  seeming  pleasures  and  yet  abstain,  and  yet  distingui.sh,  and 
yet  prefer  that  which  is  truly  better,  he  is  the  true  warfaring 
Christian.  I  can  not  praise  a  fugitive  and  cloistered  virtue,  un- 
exercised and  unbreathed,  that  never  sallies  out  and  sees  her  ad- 
versary, but  slinks  out  of  the  race  where  that  immortal  garland 
is  to  be  rim  for  not  without  dust  and  heat.  Assuredly  we  bring 
not  innocence  into  the  world,  we  bring  impurity  much  rather. 
That  which  purifies  us  is  trial,  and  trial  is  hy  what  is  coulraiy. 
That  virtue,  therefore,  which  is  but  a  youngling  in  the  contcmpla- 


550  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

tioii  of  evil,  and  knows  not  the  utmost  that  vice  promises  to  her 
followers  and  rejects  it,  is  but  a  blank  virtue,  not  a  f^raee  ;  which 
was  the  reason  why  our  sajje  and  serious  poet  Spenser  (whom  I 
dare  be  known  to  think  a  better  teacher  than  JScotus  or  Aquinas) 
describing  true  temperance  under  the  person  of  Guion,  brings  him 
in  with  his  palmer  through  the  cave  of  mammon  and  the  bower 
of  earthly  bliss,  that  he  might  see  and  know,  and  yet  abstain. 


"  If,  therefore,  ye  be  loth  to  dishearten  utterly  and  discontent, 
not  the  mercenary  crew  and  false  pretenders  to  learning,  but  the 
free  and  ingenuous  sort  of  such  as  evidently  were  born  to  study, 
and  love  learning  for  itself,  not  for  lucre,  or  any  otherend,  but  the 
service  of  God  and  of  Truth,  and  perhaps  that  lasting  fame  and 
perpetuity  of  praise  which  God  and  good  men  have  consented 
shall  be  the  reward  of  those  whose  published  labors  advance  the 
good  of  mankind  ;  then  know  that  so  far  to  disturb  the  judgment 
and  honesty  of  one  who  hath  but  a  common  repute  in  Laming, 
and  never  yet  offended,  as  not  to  count  him  fit  to  print  his  mind 
without  a  tutor  and  examiner,  lest  he  should  drop  a  schism  or 
something  of  corruption,  is  the  greatest  displeasure, and  indignity 
to  a  fi-ee  and  knowing  spirit  that  can  be  put  upon  him.  What 
advantage  is  it  to  be  a  man  over  a  boy  at  school  if  we  have  only 
escaped  the  ferula  to  come  under  the  fescus  of  an  imprimator^ — 
if  serious  and  elaborate  writings,  as  if  they  were  no  more  than  the 
theme  of  a  grammar  lad  under  his  pedagogue,  must  not  be  uttered 
without  the  cursory  eyes  of  a  temporizing  and  extemporizing  li- 
censer ?  He  who  is  not  trusted  with  his  own  actions,  his  drift  not 
being  known  to  be  evil,  and  standing  to  the  hazard  of  the  law 
and  penalty,  has  no  great  reason  to  think  himself  reputed  in  the 
Commonwealth  wherein  he  was  born  for  other  than  a  fool  or  a 
foreigner.  When  a  man  writes  to  the  world,  he  summons  up  all 
his  reason  and  deliberation  to  assist  him  ;  he  searches,  meditates, 
is  industrious,  and  likely  consults  and  confers  with  his  judicious 
friends  ;  after  all  which  is  done,  he  takes  himself  to  be  informed 
in  what  he  writes  as  well  as  that  any  writ  before  him  ;  if  in  this. 
the  most  consummate  act  of  his  fidelity  and  ripeness,  no  industry, 
no  former  proof  of  his  ability  can  bring  him  to  that  state  of  ma- 
turity as  not  still  mistrusted  and  suspected,  unless  he  caiTy  all  his 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  551 

considerate  diligence,  all  his  midnight  watchings,  to  the  hasty- 
view  of  an  unleisured  licenser,  perhaps  much  his  younger,  perhaps 
much  his  inferior  in  judgment,  and  perhaps  one  who  never  knew 
the  labor  of  book- writing:." 


"  And  lest  some  should  persuade  ye.  Lords  and  Commons,  that 
these  arguments  of  learned  men's  discouragement  at  this  your 
order,  are  mere  flourishes  and  not  real,  I  could  recount  what  I 
have  seen  and  heard  in  other  countries,  where  this  kind  of  in- 
quisition tyrannizes  :  when  I  have  sat  among  their  learned  men 
(for  that  honor  I  had)  and  been  counted  happy  to  be  born  in  such 
a  place  of  philosophic  freedom  as  they  supposed  England  was, 
while  themselves  did  nothing  but  bemoan  the  servile  condition 
into  which  learning  among  them  was  brought ;  that  this  was  it 
which  had  damped  the  glory  of  Italian  wits  ;  that  nothing  had 
been  there  written  now  these  many  years  but  flattery  and  fashion. 
There  it  was  that  I  found  and  visited  the  famous  CTalileo,  grown 
old,  a  prisoner  to  the  Inquisition,  for  thinking  in  astronomy  other- 
wise than  the  Franciscan  and  Dominican  masters  thought.  And 
though  I  knew  that  England  was  then  groaning  loudest  under 
the  prelatical  yoke,  nevertheless  I  took  it  as  a  pledge  of  future 
happiness  that  other  nations  were  so  persuaded  of  her  liberty." 


"  Lords  and  Commons  of  England  !  consider  what  nation  it  is 
whereof  ye  are  the  governors ;  a  nation,  not  slow  and  dull,  but 
of  a  quick,  ingenious,  and  pressing  spirit,  acute  to  invent,  subtile. 
and  sinewy  to  discourse,  not  beneath  the  reach  of  any  point  that 
human  capacity  can  soar  to.  *  *  *  Methinks  I  see  in  my 
mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation,  rousing  herself  like  a  strong 
man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks ;  methinks  I 
see  her  as  an  eagle,  showing  her  mighty  youth  and  kindling  her 
vmdazzled  eyes  at  the  full  mid-day  beam  ;  purging  and  unsealing 
her  long-abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself  oi  heavenly  radiance  ; 
while  the  whole  voice  of  timorous  and  flocking  birds,  with  those 
also  that  love  the  twilight,  flutter  about,  amazed  at  what  she 
means. 


552  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

"  Tlioujrh  all  the  winds  of  doctrine  were  let  loose  to  play  upon 
the  oartli,  so  Truth  be  in  the  field,  we  do  injudiciously,  by  licens- 
iiiir  and  prohihitinpf,  misdoubt  her  strength.  Let  her  and  False- 
liood  grapple  ;  who  ever  knew  Truth  put  to  the  worse  in  a  free 
and  open  encounter  ?  Her  contending  is  the  best  and  purest 
suppressing.  He  who  hears  what  praying  there  is  for  light  and 
clear  knowledge  to  be  sent  down  among  us,  would  think  of  other 
matters  to  be  constituted  beyond  the  discipline  of  Geneva,  framed 
and  fabricated  already  to  our  hands.  Yet  when  the  new  light 
which  we  beg  for  shines  in  upon  us,  there  be  who  envy  and  op- 
pose if  it  come  not  first  in  at  their  casements.  What  a  collusion 
is  this ;  whereas  we  are  exhorted  by  the  wise  man  to  use  dili- 
gence, "  to  seek  for  wisdom  as  for  hidden  treasures,"  early  and 
late,  that  another  order  shall  enjoin  us  to  know  nothing  but  by 
statute  I  When  a  man  hath  been  laboring  his  hardest  labors  in 
the  deep  mines  of  knowledge,  hath  furnished  out  his  findings  in 
all  their  equipage,  drawn  forth  his  reasons  as  it  were  a  battle, 
scattered  and  defeated  all  objections  in  his  way,  calls  out  his  ad- 
versaiy  into  the  plain,  offers  him  the  advantage  of  wind  and  sun 
if  he  please,  only  that  he  may  try  the  matter  by  dint  of  argu- 
ment ;  for  his  opponents  then  to  skulk,  to  lay  ambushments,  to 
keep  a  narrow  bridge  of  licensing  where  the  challenger  should 
pass,  though  it  be  valor  enough  in  soldiership,  is  but  weakness 
and  cowardice  in  the  wars  of  truth.  For  who  knows  not  that 
Truth  is  strong  next  to  the  Almighty  ?  She  needs  no  policies, 
nor  stratagems,  nor  licensings  to  make  her  victorious  ;  those  are 
the  shifts  and  the  defenses  that  error  uses  against  her  power. 
Give  her  but  room,  and  do  not  bind  her  when  she  sleeps." 

Jeremy  Taylor,  the  great  ornament  of  English  pulpit  eloquence, 
is  the  successor  of  John  Milton  ;  yet  no  two  writers,  each  being 
so  admirable,  can  be  more  different.  The  Prelate,  with  his  in- 
imitable grace,  his  fertility,  and  his  fancy ;  the  Poet,  with  his 
fullness,  his  grandeur,  and  his  force.  They  who  would  enjoy  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  the  life  and  works  of  Bishop  Taylor  related  and 
analyzed  by  a  kindred  mind,  should  read  the  charming  work  of 
my  friend  Mr.  Willmott.  I  content  myself  with  extracting  one 
splendid  passage  from  his  sermon  on  the  marriage  ring. 

"  Marriage  is  the  proper  scene  of  piety  and  patience,  of  the 
duty  of  parents  and  the  charity  of  relations ;  here  kindness  is 
spread   abroad,  and   Invc   is  united    and   made   firm  as  a  center. 


A     LITEKAKY    LIFE.  553 

Marriage  is  the  nurseiy  oi'  heaven.  The  virgin  sends  prayers  to 
God,  but  she  carries  but  one  soul  to  him  ;  but  the  state  of  mar- 
riage fills  up  the  numbers  of  the  elect,  and  hath  in  it  the  labor 
of  love  and  the  delicacies  of  friendship,  the  blessing  of  society  and 
the  union  of  hands  and  hearts.  It  hath  in  it  less  of  beauty  but 
more  of  safety  than  the  single  life  ;  it  hath  more  ease  but  less 
danger  ;  it  is  more  merry  and  more  sad ;  is  fuller  of  sorrows  and 
fuller  of  joys  ;  it  lies  under  more  burdens,  but  is  supported  by  all 
the  strengths  of  love  and  charity,  and  those  burdens  are  de- 
lightful. 

"  Marriage  is  the  mother  of  the  vi'orld,  and  preserves  kingdoms, 
and  fills  cities  and  churches,  and  heaven  itself.  Celibole,  like 
the  fly  in  the  heart  of  an  apple,  dwells  in  a  perpetual  sweetness, 
but  sits  alone,  and  is  confined  and  dies  in  singularity  ;  but  mar- 
riage, like  the  useful  bee,  builds  a  house,  and  gathers  sweetness 
from  every  flower,  and  labors,  and  unites  into  societies  and  repub- 
lics, and  sends  out  colonies,  and  feeds  the  world  with  delicacies, 
and  obeys  their  King,  and  keeps  order,  and  exercises  many  vir- 
tues, and  promotes  the  interest  of  mankind,  and  is  that  state  of 
good  things  to  which  God  hath  designed  the  present  constitution 
of  the  world. 

Mr.  ^uskin's  name  is  not  unworthy  of  being  included  in  this 
illustrious  catalogue.  Nothing  in  modern  literature  was  more 
remarkable  than  the  appearance  of  the  young  Oxford  graduate  in 
the  great  field  of  art,  attacking  with  fearless  boldness  all  that  had 
been  consecrated  by  the  veneration  of  ages  ;  demolishing  old 
idols,  setting  up  new  ;  often  no  doubt  right,  sometimes  probably 
wrong  ;  but  always  striking,  always  eloquent,  always  true  to  his 
own  convictions  and  his  own  noble  nature.  I  am  too  ignorant 
of  his  great  subject  to  venture  any  opinion  upon  particular  de- 
cisions ;  but  it  is  certain  that  nothing  but  good  can  result  from 
drawing,  as  he  has  done,  the  attention  of  the  English  pubhc  to 
the  merits  of  their  living  countrymen,  and  sending  the  patrons  of 
Art  from  the  picture-dealer  to  the  painter  :  nothing  but  good 
either  to  the  taste  or  the  heart  from  his  own  written  pictures — 
holy,  and  pure,  and  bright,  as  those  of  his  favorite  Wordsworth. 
Many  passages  of  "  The  Modern  Painters"  are  really  poems  ia 
their  tenderness,  their  sentiment,  and  their  grandeur.  Who,  ex- 
cept a  poet,  could  put,  as  he  has  done,  life  into  a  flower,  in 
his  exquisite  description  of  the  Soldonella  of  the  Alps,  a  coarse 

A  A 


r)o4  It  E  C  O  L  L  E  C  1'  I  O  N  S    u  V 

and  connuou  plant,  wlien  seen  in  luxuriant  hoaltli  iu  a  fertile 
valKy,  hut  rising  into  a  (oucliinjj,  almost  an  ideal  grace,  when 
languishing  through  a  faint  and  feeble  existence,  on  the  extreme 
borders  of  those  eternal  snows,  where  it  shows,  like  a  memory  of 
beauty,  a  consolation  and  a  hope  amid  the  horrors  and  desolatior 
of  a  stern  and  barren  world. 

But  the  greatest  triumph  of  Mr.  Ruskin  is  that  long  series  ol 
cloud  pictures,  unparalleled,  1  suppose,  in  any  language,  whethe/ 
painted  or  \\'ritten.  I  transcribe  the  fine  opening  of  these  mag 
nificent  chapters. 

OF  THE  OPEN   SKY. 

"  It  is  a  strange  thing  how  little,  in  general,  people  know 
about  the  sky.  It  is  the  part  of  creation  in  which  nature  has 
done  more  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  man — more  for  the  sole  and 
evident  purpose  of  talking  to  him,  and  teaching  him,  than  in  any 
other  of  her  works  ;  and  it  is  just  the  part  in  which  we  least  at- 
tend to  her.  There  are  not  many  of  her  other  works  in  which 
some  more  material  or  essential  purpose  than  the  mere  pleasing 
of  men,  is  not  answered  by  every  part  of  their  organization  ;  but 
every  essential  purpose  of  the  sky  might,  so  far  as  we  know,  be 
answered,  if,  once  in  three  days  or  thereabouts,  a  great  ugly 
black  rain-cloud  were  brought  up  over  the  blue,  and  every  thing 
well  watered,  and  so  all  left  blue  again  till  next  time,  with  per- 
haps a  film  of  morning  and  evening  mist  for  dew.  And,  instead 
of  this,  there  is  not  a  moment  of  any  day  of  our  lives  when  na- 
ture is  not  producing  scene  after  scene,  picture  after  picture,  glory 
after  glory,  and  working  still  upon  such  exquisite  and  constant 
principles  of  the  most  perfect  beauty,  that  it  is  quite  certain  that 
it  is  all  done  for  us,  and  intended  for  our  perpetual  pleasure. 
And  every  man,  wherever  placed,  however  far  from  other  sources 
of  interest  or  of  bf^auty,  has  this  doing  for  him  constantly.  The 
noblest  scenes  of  the  earth  can  be  seen  and  known  but  by  few  ; 
it  is  not  intended  that  man  should  live  always  in  the  midst  of 
them  :  he  injures  them  by  his  presence,  he  ceases  to  feel  them,  if 
he  be  alwaj's  with  them  ;  but  the  sky  is  for  all  ;  bright  as  it  is, 
it  is  not  '  too  bright  nor  good  for  human  nature's  daily  food  ;'  it 
is  fitted  in  all  its  functions  for  the  perpetual  comfort  and  exalting 
of  the  heart,  for  the  soothing  it,  and  purifying  it  from  its  dross 


A    LITERARY     LIFE.  555 

and  dust.  Sometimes  gentle,  sometimes  capricious,  sometimes 
awful — never  the  same  for  two  moments  together  ;  almost  human 
in  its  passions,  almost  spiritual  in  its  tenderness,  almost  divine  in 
its  infinity,  its  appeal  to  what  is  immortal  in  us  as  distinct  as  its 
ministry  of  chastisement  or  of  blessing  to  what  is  mortal  is  essen- 
tial. 

And  yet  we  never  attend  to  it,  we  never  make  it  a  subject  of 
thought,  but  as  it  has  to  do  with  our  animal  sensations  ;  we  look 
upon  all  by  which  it  speaks  to  us  more  clearly  than  to  brutes, 
upon  all  which  bears  witness  to  the  intention  of  the  Supreme, 
that  we  are  to  receive  more  from  the  covering  vault  than  the 
light  and  the  dew  which  we  share  with  the  weed  and  the  worm, 
only  as  a  succession  of  meaningless  and  monotonous  accident,  too 
common  and  too  painful  to  be  worthy  of  a  moment  of  watchful- 
ness, or  a  glance  of  admiration.  If,  in  our  moments  of  utter  idle- 
ness and  insipidity,  we  turn  to  the  sky  as  a  last  resource,  which 
of  its  phenomena  do  we  speak  of?  One  says  it  has  been  wet, 
and  another  it  has  been  windy,  and  another  it  has  been  warm. 
Who,  among  the  whole  chattering  crowd,  can  tell  me  of  the 
forms  and  the  precipices  of  the  chain  of  tall  white  mountains 
that  gilded  the  horizon  at  noon  yesterday  ?  Who  saw  the  nar- 
row sunbeam  that  came  out  of  the  south,  and  smote  upon  their 
summits,  until  they  melted  and  moldered  away  in  a  dust  of  blue 
rain  ?  Who  saw  the  dance  of  the  dead  clouds,  when  the  sunlight 
left  them  last  night,  and  the  west  wind  blew  them  before  it,  like 
withered  leaves  ?  All  has  passed  um'egretted  or  unseen  ;  or,  if 
the  apathy  be  ever  shaken  off,  even  for  an  instant,  it  is  only  by 
what  is  gross,  or  what  is  extraordinary  ;  and  yet  it  is  not  in  the 
broad  and  fierce  manifestations  of  the  elemental  energies,  not  in 
the  clash  of  the  hail,  nor  the  drift  of  the  whirlwind,  that  the 
highest  charactei's  of  the  sublime  are  developed.  God  is  not  in 
the  earthquake,  nor  in  the  fire,  but  in  the  still  small  voice. 
They  are  but  the  blunt  and  the  loud  faculties  of  our  nature, 
which  can  only  be  addressed  through  lampblack  and  lightning. 
It  is  in  quiet  and  subdued  passages  of  unobtrusive  majesty — the 
deep,  and  the  calm,  and  the  perpetual — that  whicli  must  be 
sought  ere  it  is  seen,  and  loved  ere  it  is  understood — things  which 
the  angels  work  out  for  us  daily,  and  yet  very  eternally,  which 
are  never  wanting,  and  never  repeated,  which  are  to  be  iouiiii 
always,  yet  each  found  but  once.     It  is  through  these  that  the 


,)0()  K  KC()1>  LKC'Tl  ON  S     OK 

lesson  oi'  tlevotioii  is  chietly  taught,  and  the  blessing  ol'  beauty 
given." 

Jeremy  Taylor  himsell"  has  nothing  more  holy  or  more  beaull- 
liil  than  this  passage. 

My  most  kind  friend,  Mr.  Ruskin,  will  understand  why  I  con- 
nect his  name  with  the  latest  event  that  has  befallen  me,  the 
leaving  the  cottage  that  for  thirty  years  had  been  my  shelter.  In 
truth,  it  was  leaving  me.  All  above  the  foundation  seemed  mol- 
dering,  like  an  old  cheese,  with  damp  and  rottenness.  The  rain 
came  dripping  through  the  roof  and  steaming  through  the  walls. 
The  hailstones  pattered  upon  my  bed,  through  the  casements,  and 
the  small  panes  rattled  and  fell  to  pieces  every  high  wind.  My 
pony  was  driven  from  his  stable  by  a  great  hole  where  the  bricks 
had  fallen  out  of  the  side,  and  from  the  coach-house,  where  he 
was  led  for  refuge,  by  a  huge  gap  in  the  thatch  above.  Tliere 
was  some  danger  that  his  straw  bed  must  be  spread  iu  the  little 
hall  ;  but  the  hall  itself  was  no  safer,  for  one  evening,  crossing 
from  the  door  to  the  staircase,  I  found  myself  dragging  off  the 
!«kirting-board  by  no  stronger  a  compulsion  than  the  flounce  of  a 
muslin  gown.  The  poor  cottage  was  crumbling  around  us,  and 
if  we  had  stayed  much  longer  we  should  have  been  buried  in  the 
ruins. 

And  yet  it  was  great  grief  to  go.  Besides  my  hatred  of  all 
change,  especially  change  of  place,  a  tendency  to  take  root  where 
I  am  planted,  and  to  eschew  all  past  dwellings,  which  renders 
me  quite  an  anachronism  in  this  locomotive  age  ;  besides  my 
general  aversion  to  new  habitations,  I  had  associations  with  those 
old  walls  which  endeared  them  to  me  more  than  I  can  tell. 
There  1  had  toiled  and  striven,  and  tasted  of  bitter  anxiety,  of 
fear  and  of  hope  as  often  falls  to  the  lot  of  women.  There,  in 
the  fullness  of  age,  I  had  lost  those  whose  love  had  made  my 
home  sweet  and  precious.  Alas !  there  is  no  hearth  so  humble 
but  it  has  known  such  tales  of  joy  and  of  sorrow  ! 

Other  recollections,  less  dear  and  less  sad,  added  their  interest 
to  the  place.  Friends,  many  and  kind  ;  strangers,  whose  names 
were  an  honor,  had  come  to  that  bright  garden,  and  that  garden 
room.  The  hst  would  fill  more  pages  than  I  have  to  give. 
There  Mr.  Justice  Talfourd  had  brought  the  delightful  gayety  of 
his  brilliant  youth,  and  poor  Haydon  had  talked  more  brilliant 
pictures  than  he  ever  painted      The  illustrations  of  the  last  cen- 


A     LITEKAKY    LIFE.  557 

tury — Mrs.  Opie,  Miss  Porter,  Mr.  Gary — had  mingled  there  with 
poets,  still  in  their  earliest  dawn.  It  was  a  heart-tug  to  leave 
that  garden. 

But  necessity  (may  I  not  say  Providence  ?)  works  for  us  bet- 
ter than  our  own  vain  wishes.  I  did  move — I  was  compelled  to 
move  from  the  dear  old  house  ;  not  very  far ;  not  much  farther 
than  Cowper,  when  he  migrated  from  Olney  to  Weston,  and  with 
quite  as  happy  an  effect.  I  walked  from  the  one  cottage  to  the 
other  on  an  autumn  evening,  when  the  vagrant  birds,  whose 
habit  of  assembling  here  for  their  annual  departure,  gives,  I  sup- 
pose, its  name  of  Swallowfield  to  the  village,  were  circling  and 
twittering  over  my  head  ;  and  repeated  to  myself  the  pathetic 
lines  of  Hayley,  as  he  saw  those  same  birds  gathering  upon  his 
roof  during  his  last  illness  : 


<5 


9 


■'  Ye  gentle  birds,  that  perch  aloof, 
And  smooth  your  pinions  on  my  roof. 
Preparing  for  departure  hence, 
(»/.-,  '  The  winter's  angry  threats  commence  ; 

'  Like  you  my  soul  would  smooth  her  plume 

For  longer  flights  beyond  the  tomb. 

May  God,  by  whom  is  seen  and  heard 
Departing  men  and  wandering  bird, 
In  mercy  mark  us  for  his  own 
And  guide  us  to  the  land  unknown  1" 

Thoughts  soothing  and  tender  came  with  those  touching  lines, 
and  gayer  images  followed.  Here  I  am  in  this  prettiest  village, 
in  the  snuggest  and  cosiest  of  all  snug  cabins  ;  a  trim  cottage 
garden,  divided  by  a  hawthorn  hedge  i'rom  a  little  field  guarded 
by  grand  old  trees  ;  a  cheerful  glimpse  of  the  high-road  in  front, 
just  to  hint  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  the  peopled  world  ;  and 
on  either  side  the  deep  silent  lanes  that  form  the  distinctive 
character  of  English  scenerj'.  Very  lovely  is  my  favorite  lane, 
leading  along  a  gentle  declivity  to  the  valley  of  the  Loddon,  by 
pastoral  water  meadows  studded  with  willow  pollards,  past  pic- 
turesque farm-houses  and  gaunt  old  mills,  the  beautiful  river 
glancing  here  and  there  like  molten  silver,  until  it  disappears 
through  a  rustic  bridge  among  the  shades  and  avenues  of  the 
Duke's  park,  a  scene  of  historians. 
.     We  have    another    historical   mansion  close  at   hand,   where 


5o8       HECO  L  LECTION'S    OF    A    LITKUAKY    LIFE. 

Lord  Clareiulon  wrote  his  thrilling  tale  of  the  Great  Rebellion, 
and  where  the  inhabitants  and  the  library  are  worthy  of  such  a 
predecessor.  And  they  are  so  kind  to  me  I  and  every  body  is  so 
kind  ;   and  the  new  cottage  is  already  dearer  than  the  old. 

The  very  gipsys  have  Ibund  us  out.  Even  as  I  wi'ite,  my  lit- 
tle maid  is  bargaining  for  baskets  with  my  friend  of  the  lane,  and 
seems  likely  to  be  as  well  taken  in  as  I  could  be  ;  the  pony  is 
rolling  in  the  meadow ;  the  mill-wagon,  with  the  jolly  miller's 
handsome  son,  is  looming  in  the  distance  ;  and  on  the  green  be- 
fore our  court,  little  Henry  is  driving  Fanchon  in  the  wheelbar- 
row, while  her  brown  curls  are  turning  into  gold  in  the  wintry 
sun,  which  lends  its  charm  and  its  glory  to  the  simplest  land- 
scape and  the  humblest  home. 


THE    KND. 


/ 


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